


Snow in the Desert

by juniorstarcatcher



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode Fix-It: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Post - A Game of Thrones, Post-Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Queen Sansa, Queen in the North, Romance, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa-centric, sansa deserves happiness and romance don't @ me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 09:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniorstarcatcher/pseuds/juniorstarcatcher
Summary: Sansa Stark, Queen of the North, locked away her heart a long time ago. But the Prince of Dorne wants to find the key.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Snow in the Desert](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19053025) by [larasorna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/larasorna/pseuds/larasorna)



_Let me tell you a story._

_Let me read you a romance._

_I will read._

_You will listen._

_And this terrible night will pass._

 

* * *

 

            When Sansa Stark had first come to King’s Landing, as a foolish little girl with a foolish head full of foolish fairy tales and little else, she’d thought that the lights of the city were extraordinary. No matter what time of day or night, the city glowed with lamps and candlelight, shining out into the dark world like a beacon.

            Now, as she stood out on the parapet outside of her temporary chambers in The Red Keep—or what was left of The Red Keep, anyway—she knew better than to appreciate those lights. Brighter light only meant deeper, darker shadows. And she knew the shadows of this place better than anyone. Staring out at the sea, she rested her hand upon the stone and wished that she could see the stars here like she could in The North. At least there, she could count the constellations and know Jon and Arya and all the family she’d lost where connected to her by them.

            Here, there were no stars. No constellations. And nothing but the sounds of her own thoughts.

            Or, there  _had_  been nothing but the sound of her own thoughts. Until a confident, cocksure voice reached her ears.

             “A beautiful night for a stroll, is it not?”

             Sansa started at the intrusion but recovered quickly. She was now practiced at composing her face into a regal, detached mask, and she put that training to use. The voice was a new, but not unfamiliar one, and she didn’t give him the dignity of turning to face him. “A nice night if you like the sight of destruction, I suppose.”

             “I’m sorry. I did not mean to frighten you. May I join you, your Grace?”

             After a moment of consideration, she dipped her chin in the slightest of nods. The man’s presence moved forward across the stone pavers of the parapet, until she could feel the warmth of his body cutting through the night wind off of the sea. Before she ever looked at him, she knew who he was.  _Dorne_. He smelled of sand and saltwater and heat radiated off of him as if he’d carried the desert sun all the way with him from his homeland. “With all due respect, it takes quite a great deal to frighten me.”

             “Yes, I have heard that you are not easily frightened.”  

             Sansa blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

             For the first time, she offered him her attention, only to recoil slightly when she realized just how  _near_  he stood. He’d joined her at the edge of the parapet so close that she could count his eyelashes and catch the slight twinkle—of torchlight or of amusement?—in his eyes. The man was handsome, almost disarmingly so, in a kind of ruggedly regal kind of way, so unlike the other men she’d known in Westeros. She’d noticed all of this, of course, when she’d first made his acquaintance before the Council to decide the fate of the Kingdoms, but then there had been a veil of modesty and decorum separating them. Now, there was no barrier but the soft air between them.

             His smile was easy, unrehearsed, and it focused solely on her. In another life, his presence might have been intoxicating. But Sansa knew better than to get drunk off of men anymore. It gave them too much power—power that, as a Queen, she would never again surrender.

             Dorne—whatever his name was, she couldn’t remember much of their introduction, given that she was absorbed in the business of saving her brother’s life and her family’s kingdom—shrugged. She noticed that he did not speak with the practiced airs of a nobleman; his gentle, lightly accented voice hummed on the wind, smooth as a whistle. “The Hand of the King was right. Stories matter. And yours has travelled across the sea to my people. A woman who watched her father die only to be used as a pawn and plaything for the most cruel men Westeros ever saw. You survived them all  _and_  the armies of the dead. I am impressed.”

             Sansa’s lips thinned into a line. She returned her gaze back to the broken city below and the sea beyond. He noticed.

             “Does that displease you?”

             “Believe it or not, I did not survive my own life to impress you,” she intoned. “Or anyone.”

             “I would never accuse you of that. But you have won my respect and admiration just the same.”

             For a brief moment, warmth fanned across Sansa’s chest. He, a perfect stranger who’d only heard her stories, thought her brave and strong?

            But just as quickly as the sensation arrived, it disappeared under the weight of a lifetime of learned cynicism. Over her entire life, there were only a handful of men who’d ever complimented her. And they’d all wanted something in return. This man was no different. How boring. Sansa pressed her palms into the cool stone railing in front of which she was currently standing, hoping that the cold seeping through her hands would remind her of home, of the reason she’d fought and survived in the first place.

            She did not become Queen so some man could charm his way between her legs. She would not be conquered for some pretty words. Not anymore.

             Her eyes left the sea and found his. “If you believe your flattery will get me into your bed, you should know that you are wasting your time.”

             The man had the audacity to lean forward, to smirk, to meet her flat gaze with something like confidence. “If I wanted you in my bed, we would already be there by now. And I wouldn’t need to use flattery to get you there. No, your Grace, I offer you flattery only because you have earned it.”

             Now, she knew that it wasn’t his own warmth making heat collect beneath the fur wrapping around her collar. She was generating that heat all on her own, her steeled porcelain skin flushing at his attention. Somehow, even with her mask in place and her defenses fully raised, he was getting under her skin.

            Talking about going to bed with him would only end in disaster, not the least of which because his words— _we would be there by now_ —awakened heady, carnal, forbidden images in her imagination. She’d never known sex to be fun or pleasant or pleasurable. Most of the sex she had wasn’t even had. It was  _endured_. Then again, she’d never known conversations in dark corners in King’s Landing to be fun either.

             …But she had the sneaking suspicion that this smiling, easy, warm man could make the best of things that used to hurt her.

             She changed the subject. No good could come out of that line of thinking.

             “For someone who so admires me, you were silent during the council. You could have spoken for me if you thought I’d earned a place on the throne.”

             “And  _you_  could have spoken for me,” he countered, though not harshly. Almost as if he were teasing her.  

             “I didn’t know you. Or your  _story,_ ” she said, barely able to hide her annoyance with her former husband’s little speech about the importance of tales. She knew better. Tales had given her hope as a little girl; if she hadn’t spent so much time believing in them, perhaps she wouldn’t have been torn apart by this wretched world.  “For all I know you could have been a terrible king.”

“Then allow me to introduce myself. You may have known me once, in another life, when I was a stupid nobleman’s son.” She didn’t remember him, but that was neither here nor there. He pressed on. “But as the conflict in Westeros spread and infected Dorne, I opened up my family’s estate as a kind of sanctuary for those who had been hurt—widows, orphans, refugees…It didn’t win me any favors with the nobility or The Sands, but it  _did_  win me the love of the people. When our last ruler was killed, they rose me up to take her place. I am Prince Terras Gadrios, leader of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear. And I would have been a  _great_  king.”

              _Terras_. Of the Earth. It suited him. The name was almost as disarming as his story. She could think of a time or two during the war when she would have killed for a protective sanctuary; if he was as noble as he seemed, then he was the first and last noble man in all of the six kingdoms.

             “And yes,” he continued. “I could have spoken for you during The Council. But I didn’t believe you wanted to be Queen.”

             “Oh?” she questioned, grateful for the affront to her pride, because it kept her from liking him too much or thinking too deeply about what it meant that Dorne had a good prince sitting on the throne. “And what  _do_  I want then, since you’re such an expert?”

             "To be free.”

             Her heart stutter-stepped. She was used to being underestimated, misjudged. She wasn’t used to someone being so right about her. Clearing her throat, she tore her eyes away from him and focused on the silver, needlepoint direwolf growling at the edges of her gloves.

              “A Stark should always guard Winterfell. And I will be the greatest ruler The North has ever known.”

             “I have no doubt. Your people shall love you.”

              _When I am Queen, I will make them love me._ Sansa couldn’t stand here anymore, couldn’t be trapped beside this man any longer. The sea and the city now seemed oppressively close, and Terras seemed too close to the mark. Leaving the wall behind, she started to walk the parapet, knowing he would follow.

             “Why have you sought me out? You don’t want me in your bed—”

             “I didn’t say that. Only that I would never use flowery lies to get you there.”

             She swallowed, hard, shoving down a wave of desire that threatened to rise up inside of her and wash away her carefully composed mask. “—What, then? What do you want? An alliance with the Free North?”

             “I sought you out because you got nearly everything you wanted— _freedom for The North, a crown, your brother’s life and a Stark on the throne of Westeros_ —and yet, at supper… You looked so sad. I wanted to…” There was a pause then, one she couldn’t read. “It’s on a man’s honor to ensure that a Lady is well when he sees that she is in distress.”

             For many moments of quiet footfall, Sansa considered lying to him. She didn’t owe this man—or any man—the truth. But her mind had been a locked tomb for days now; she would go mad if she didn’t open the door for someone. Considering she would never see or speak to the prince again once she left for Winterfell and he for Dorne, he seemed as good an option as any. Clearing her throat, she fought to remove all emotion from her voice. “I have not been back to King’s Landing in years. These hallways are full of ghosts.”

             “Whose ghosts?”

             “Mine.”

              _Ghosts of the girl she had been and the woman she fought to become. Ghosts she still danced with, even now._

             “Then why are you smiling now?”

             Her gloved hand flew to her cheek. Sure enough. Smiling. She hadn’t even realized she’d been doing it.

             “Because…” She stopped their walking at a burned-out corner of the castle, where further passage was impossible. Her plan had been to turn back, but now, the stones caught her between their unforgiving stillness and Terras’ warmth. This time, she did not flinch or shy away from him or his abrupt stare. “I came back a Queen, a liberator. And everyone who hurt me is dead.”

             Terras considered that. Sansa’s chest momentarily tightened, afraid he might call her mad like they’d all called Daenerys mad. Sansa had no love for the dead Queen, but after all, she’d wanted  _her_  enemies dead. And what was more mad to a man than a woman wanting justice? But, no. There was no threat of murder or of tossing her off of her throne from Terras’ lips. Instead, he offered her his hand. And, to her surprise, she took it.

             Even with her gloves protecting her from his touch, Sansa shivered. She allowed him to lead her back towards her chambers, hoping he didn’t notice. “Have you ever been to Dorne, your Grace?”

             “No. I don’t do well in warm climates.”

             “Well, there is a flower there called the  _Acarcis._ ”

            “A botany lesson. Just what every Northern girl lives for,” she snarked, under her breath.  

             “The  _Acarcis_  is the most beautiful flower in all of Dorne. When birds leave the safety of civilization, they die in the desert, and the seeds in their decaying bellies bury themselves in the dry ground. In a land where everything goes to die, the  _Acarcis_  takes root and blooms, more radiant and more beautiful than any tenderly cared for Rose. And you, your Grace, may not have ever been to Dorne, and you may not think you do well in warm climates, but…”

             They stopped in front of her chambers then. Their faces mere inches apart. His breath playing against her lips. It should have been terrifying, should have brought back memories of the horrible men who’d abused and betrayed her. But there was softness in his touch and respect in his eyes and he spoke to her as if he wanted her to believe as deeply in what he said as he already did.

             “You are an  _Acarcis_  if I’ve ever seen one.”

             Sansa felt as if she’d waded into the sea with pockets full of stones. She could have handled the sweet words if they were lies. She could have dismissed them or laughed at them or tossed them—and the man who spoke them—aside. But he believed them. He was telling the truth. And that, she could not tolerate. Sansa removed her hands from his. Her body regretted the loss of his warmth, but she had no choice. Her mask returned. Her indifference rose up like a shield. And she dismissed him.

             “I wish you a safe journey back to Dorne, Prince Terras.”

              “And you back to Winterfell, your Grace,” he said, offering her a deep, reverent bow. “May the winter be kind as her Queen.”

             The look he gave her then could have melted anyone else’s heart. But Sansa kept her heart locked away too tightly for him to reach her anymore.

 

* * *

 _Six Weeks Later_  

            There was no longer a Queen In The North, but a Queen of the North. And Sansa bore that responsibility as she knew she always would: with the wisdom of her father, with the grace of her mother, with the honor of her brothers, with the ferocity of her sister, and with the experience of a life spent fighting for the right to live it.

            Her duties kept her so busy she usually forgot to think about her brief time with Terras of Dorne or what he’d said to her, except for deep in the night when his words breathed in her tired ears and her imagination conjured up how that deep, soft voice of his would sound spilling out her name as he whispered it against every inch of her bare body.

             But that changed the afternoon Elisa, one of the many orphans of The War against the Dead who Sansa had taken under her wing and given employment in the castle, ran into her high offices, huffing and puffing as though someone was about to invade.

             “Your Grace?” the girl asked, her braids still swishing against her shoulders as she skidded to a stop in front of the great desk covered in Sansa’s maps and papers.

             “Yes, Elisa,” Sansa replied, used to the exuberance of the castle’s children, who always thought what they had to say was the most important thing anyone had ever said. “What is it?”

             “A courier has arrived.” 

            That got the Queen’s attention. “A courier? From where?”

             “Dorne. He wasn’t ready for the cold. His shoes are soaked through and his clothes are useless up here. I tried to make him comfortable as I could. I gathered up every fur I could find and put him in front of the fire, but he won’t stop trying to protect whatever it is he’s carrying—”

             “That’s alright. I’ll see him now.”

             “Yes, my Queen.”

             Sansa collected herself from her desk and moved to the Throne Room as her every thought and as every fiber of her being tried desperately to escape from her tight control. What could Terras want with her now? Soon, a Dornish man in traditional clothing—and shivering from head to toe—walked in, alone, carrying a box covered in pelts and furs, concealing its contents from her.

             A stab of shameful disappointment speared her gut. The man wasn’t Terras at all. She took a long sip of mead to help still her shaking hands.

             “Your Majesty, Queen of The North.” The shivering man managed a flourishing bow. “I come bearing a gift from the Prince of Dorne, Terras Gadrios, the Protector of The Innocent and Conqueror of The Deserts.”

             This could be a trap. Sansa’s hand traveled defensively to the knife Arya gave her before the Battle of the Dead.

             “Leave it,” she said.

             “What?”

             “Leave it with me. I shall open it alone.”

             “But I was to report—”

             “Report back my reaction? No.” Sansa sniffed, trying to keep her emotions at bay while her heart threatened a revolt in her chest. “If I  _have_ any reaction, I will inform your master myself by raven. My ladies will outfit you appropriately for the North and send you on your way.”

             The courier bowed and allowed himself to be removed. And it was only when the commotion outside of the locked doors of the throne room died out completely that Sansa felt safe tearing away the furs from the box.

             With a heave of her arms, they fell away, leaving only a glass box standing there in the middle of the room, absorbing the sunlight streaming in through the windows. She gasped.

             Inside, a small patch of desert had been constructed, a terrarium of sorts, and out of that tiny desert bloomed a flower stretching its petals out towards the sun, soaking up its rays so that the light could dance through the vibrant green stalk and the pinks and yellows of the flower itself.

             She’d never seen anything so beautiful. More vibrant than any jewel, more striking than any sunrise.

             It wasn’t a trap. It was a gift.

             In her haste to rip away the furs, she’d missed a card baring sprawling, masculine script. She picked it up and read it.

 

_Queen Sansa, Wolf of The North, Liberator of Her People, and Guardian of Winter,_

_I have seen the flower that blooms in the snow. I thought you might like to see the flower that blooms in the desert._

_Yours,_

_Terras._  

 

            Carefully—oh, so carefully—Sansa folded the letter and tucked it into the pocket sewn into the inside of her corset’s breast. It rested just over her heart, which, despite her best efforts, had broken its shackles and started beating again.  

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! That Game of Thrones ending, huh? 
> 
> Well, I'm very mixed on it but one thing I KNOW is that I want Sansa to fall in love with the badass, kind, wonderful man she deserves. So, I wrote the outline for a super long Sansa/Prince of Dorne fic that I wanted to write, but then I got worried no one would want to read a long fic about them! So, this first chapter is kind of a test. If people like it, I'll continue and do a full-length fic, but if people don't, I'll leave it up as a one-shot!
> 
> So, let me know in the comments if you want a full-length fic of these two and what you think of this chapter! I can't wait to hear from you!


	2. Chapter 2

 

            In the weeks following his return from King’s Landing, Terras Gadrios had his eyes and his mind on exactly two things. One: the sky, where he searched for any ravens that would send him word from the Queen of the North. And two: the kingdom of Dorne itself, which he was going to rule, outright, one day.

             Enough of Westeros ruling over them. Enough of bowing to their kings and their leaders. Dorne would be free and independent once more, just as they had been before the Targaryen invasion. He wouldn’t let the wars of Westeros hurt another one of his people, not after the destruction he’d seen.

            No, he wanted what Sansa Stark had, what she’d fought for and earned for herself: freedom. And he was so close to getting it he could almost taste it.

            A letter from the woman in question, on the other hand, wasn’t as close. He couldn’t quite get a read on her: would she be insulted by his letter and take her armies to Dorne to slay him for the slight? Would she smile that quiet, hidden smile of hers and clutch the letter to her breast before burning it so she never had to think of him again? He didn’t know. All he knew was that every time he fell asleep lately, he’d slip into dreams of them sitting on twin thrones, and whenever he thought of her, it brought a smile to his face.

            His respect for her ran deeper than the Sea of Dorne, but more than that…He liked her. She was beautiful, yes, but there was something intoxicating about her sharp wit and her biting sense of humor and the way she still held out hope despite the world proving to her, again and again, that it would disappoint her.

            It was during one of these sessions, staring out at the sea from his offices in Sunspear, waiting for a letter he was growing increasingly sure would never arrive, that Terras’ thoughts were thoroughly interrupted by the slamming open of the door.

            A cloud of traveling dust followed Alcander, Terras’ older half-brother, a man who made his fortune selling overpriced goods to unsuspecting Westerosi.

             “Ah, brother,” Terras intoned, smirking as he leaned far back in his chair, surveying the man in all of his finery. He might have looked more finely attired than the king, if not for the thick layer of sea-sand coating his boots and a map of jagged scars covering his face, a souvenir from the time he’d gotten caught up in some Westerosi affairs of war during his travels there. “You’ve returned. That explains the foul stench coming off of the sea.”

             “And I see that you’ve managed to keep the kingdom from burning down. No small feat considering that you’ve been preoccupied with _botany_ lately. Or so I’ve heard.”

             News traveled fast in Dorne. If his wayfaring brother had heard about him sending The Queen in the North an Acarcis flower, then everyone else probably knew it too.

             Good. Let them know. Let them know their king believed Sansa Stark was worthy of such a gift. There weren’t a lot of kindnesses he could pay to a Queen, but she deserved every one of them. Not everyone could have gone through the Hell she went through and lived, much less lived well.  Sure, some of his people might see it as a political play—currying her favor for an alliance should Dorne ever join the Free North outside of Westeros’ control—but he would know the truth.

             “The only reason I’ve managed to keep the kingdom from burning down was that someone managed to kill all of the dragons.”

             “All of them?” Alcander snorted, plopping into the chair opposite his brother without being invited. “That’s not what I heard. Rumor has it there’s one still floating around Asshai.”

             “You believe too many fairy tales. That’s why no one will make you king.”

            Not cowed by Terras’ good-natured teasing, Alcander mirrored his relaxed posture and clucked his tongue, curls bouncing around his scarred face as he shook it. “I wouldn’t insult me if I were you.”

             “If I didn’t insult you, I’d have nothing to do except rule, and that’s far too boring.”

             A shrug. Then, the man reached into the breast pocket of his traveling robes. “Do what you like. But just know you’re insulting the man who has a letter from your lady of the North.”

             With a flourish, Alcander withdrew a thin parchment, folded over and sealed with a silver wax stamp. He’d know that sigil anywhere. His pulse rushed in his ears. Sansa had written back to him.  

             “Give it here.”

             “You know? I don’t think I will.”

             “I’m your prince and I command it,” Terras said, trying to sound as authoritative and regal as possible while having what could only be described as a twelve-year-old boy’s reaction to a girl showing him attention. “This is a letter from a Queen. It’s about affairs of state. You have no right to hold it from me.”

             “Oh, I bet it’s about _affairs_ of state, alright.”

             “Alcander. I’ll have that letter now.”

            “Maybe I’d be more inclined to listen to you if you were my King instead.” The light, buoyant air between them suddenly sunk, like a ship with a hole blown through its hull. Terras returned his attention to the paperwork on his desk, all letters from lords and nobles around Dorne begging him to petition King Bran for their own sovereignty. “You know we cannot avoid the question forever.  The people deserve their freedom.”

             “And I will give it to them. We _will_ win their freedom.”

             “When? After you’ve bedded the Queen of the North?”

             Terras stiffened. No one would speak about her that way, as if she were a thing to be laid out and used. But paying attention to his brother’s crude language would only encourage more of it. The truth was, he wanted no part of bloodshed. Winning their freedom would be easy against Westeros’ depleted armies and resources, but winning would still have a cost. And he wanted to leave Westeros to _avoid_ war, not to get himself into one.

             “We need allies,” he said, non-committally, trying not to let his brother catch even a hint that he felt or thought anything about The North’s new queen.

             “She isn’t an ally. She’s a distraction.”

            A sigh fell past Terras’ lips. Even as a king, he didn’t often feel strained or exasperated. He chose to approach life with levity, with joy, because he knew how precious it truly was. Why spend one’s life being miserable when it was so short? But his eyes hardened as he firmly, but gently, reminded Alcander of the truth. “Brother, I have but one heart. And I love Dorne with all of it. You know better than to question where my loyalties lie.”

            “Of course,” Alcander said, finally offering the parchment over. “I only wish the best for all of us. I’m sorry.”

            Alcander went on, speaking of his latest trip to the Iron Islands, but Terras didn’t hear him. Instead, he ripped open the letter bearing Sansa’s seal and devoured its contents like a starving man dropped into a bakery.

     ** _Prince Terras of Dorne_ ,**

**_Your gift of the flower has been received. It died soon after reaching me, which perhaps says something about the strength of Dornish things when compared to things from The North._**

**_Please be advised, as it seems you have not been previously informed, it is cold in The North. Should you see the need to send them again (and, I must stress, it is not necessary for you to ever do so) please outfit your couriers accordingly. Dealing with the bodies of men who died from exposure is not particularly high on my list of preferred activities._**

**_Queen Sansa Stark._ **

            If just thinking about her was enough to make him smile, holding her letter in his hand, imagining how she’d squared her shoulders and tried to control her breathing with every emotion-concealing world…it must have shown on his face.

             “What does she say?”

             "That she hates me,” Terras said, not looking up from her practiced, calligraphic script. “Not in so many words, of course, but yes. I believe I’ve gotten under her skin. Or I’m beginning to, at least.”

             “Promising beginning for a relationship,” Alcander snorted.

             But Terras wasn’t so easily dismayed. “Hate is so close to passion. And I should like to see Sansa Stark passionate. I shall have to write to her immediately.”

             “I’m afraid the love letters will have to wait. I’ve given you the good news. But there is some bad news as well.”

            “Oh?”

            A voice—a familiar, infuriatingly arrogant voice— from the door finally tore Terras away from Sansa’s letter.

            “I’m afraid he’s speaking of me.”

             No sooner had he looked up than he regretted it. Because there, outfitted with his hand of the king sigil pin, stood Tyrion Lannister. Both of the Dornish men rose to their feet in greeting, a formality which Tyrion brushed off with a wave of his signet ringed hand.

            “Lord Tyrion. To what do we owe this…” Terras shared a pointed look with his brother, searching for the words to express the intrusion. His body hummed with a hushed anxiety, a confusion at this sudden turn of events. “…unexpected honor?”

            “Can’t a dwarf visit the seaside without being accused of something nefarious?”

            “I suppose he can when he isn’t Hand of the King,” Alcander muttered. But before Terras could remind him that they were supposed to be playing politics, not making enemies with snide remarks, his tone turned decidedly pleasant and he moved towards the small collection of decanters sitting near the office’s western windows. “Wine?”

            “Yes,” Tyrion replied. “And a lot of it.”

            This was a command from the Hand of the King that Alcander was all too happy to oblige. With a smile, he offered a nearly-full glass to the man and said, “Welcome to Dorne, my Lord.”

            Tyrion took the glass and raised it in a toast. “To Dorne. And to all of Westeros. Now, for why I am here—" 

            “You are here to quash a rebellion.”

            Silence followed Terras’ easy remark. Tyrion blinked. It wasn’t often the man was at a loss for words—the council to decide The New King had more than proven that—but now, it seemed that he had been caught off-guard, as if he didn’t trust the relaxed, easy-going prince of Dorne with the small task of reading the writing on the wall. “I…”

            “Come now, Tyrion. I am a prince and you are the man who saved Westeros. Let’s not pretend either of us is stupid.”

            “Yes. I did notice that your armies seem to be readying themselves. Quite frightening, especially considering that Westeros has very little of an army to speak of at present. However, as it is, I _am_ here to quash a rebellion, but it isn’t yours." 

            Terras’ shoulders tensed. He hadn’t been expecting that. “I’m listening.” 

            “As the hand of The King, it is my duty to guide the kingdom and its leader, especially when that leader is often preoccupied by visions. King Bran might not see it, but The Free North is a threat to all of us.” Tyrion paused there, as if for dramatic effect. It worked. Darkness shadowed Terras’ vision. _“_ If we are not careful, one day soon, Sansa Stark will rule over us all. We’ll wake up one morning to find her pretty little boots pressing against our throats.” 

            “That doesn’t sound so bad to me,” Terras retorted, unable to help himself. This, apparently, was the response Tyrion had expected.

            “I know it doesn’t. Word got around about your little midnight stroll and your desert flower. Quite tactical of you, to court the one woman who could support your claim to a free Dorne." 

            The implication of that statement—that he’d been kind to Sansa Stark because of politics, that her only value was political—turned Terras’ stomach. His smile slipped. “It wasn’t about that.”  

            “Of course not,” Tyrion droned, rolling his eyes to show how little he actually believed it. “Dornish men are men of honor, I’m sure. Whatever your motives, she seems interested in _you_ too.”

            “Your gossips are misinformed. She did _not_ like me.”

            “My gossips aren’t gossips. _My_ gossip is the Three-Eyed Raven. He isn’t concerned about Sansa coming for King’s Landing, but I am. Everyone who underestimated her is dead now and I don’t want to be one of them." 

            “Then what would you have me do?”

            “Distract her. There is a beating woman’s heart somewhere buried beneath her steel exterior. Find it and hold it, keep it from thoughts of conquest. And if you succeed, we’ll give Dorne its freedom.”

            It was as if the wind off the sea had stopped blowing, as if the sun had dropped out of the sky and landed at Terras’ feet. But he’d known that if things seemed too good to be true—especially if the promise was made by a Westerosi—then it almost certainly was.

            “…You cannot mean that.”

            “We will lose you one way or another. I’d rather travel the road without bloodshed, if it’s all the same to you, especially if that road ensures Sansa Stark won’t be collecting the wildlings and her bannermen in the North to capture the rest of us.”

            “Freedom for Dorne in exchange for Sansa Stark’s…” Terras chose his word carefully here, not wanting to disrespect the woman even when she was half a world away. Rage, like fire, rose up and threatened to consume him. Gone was his ease, his lightness, and in its place, rested a deep sense of injustice. “…Her cooperation? You have to know how cruel that sounds, don’t you? She has been betrayed at every—”

            “I do not need a recounting of Sansa Stark’s trauma. I was there when it was inflicted. Which is why I know what she would do out of revenge if she had the chance.”

            “You have misjudged her. She only wants love. To be loved.”

            “Then you will love her. And then, you’ll have what _you_ want. A free Dorne.”

            Terras stared at the letter on his desk. The stares of the other two men in the room burned into his cheeks. It was like being torn in half—his conscience told him he could _not_ do this, while he knew Alcander was begging him to.

            “How do you expect me to win her when she barely acknowledges my existence?”

            “We will conduct a summit at High Garden on the issue of Dornish independence, a formality that will make it easier to believe when we eventually grant it. She will be in attendance. There, she will not be able to escape you. Or your apparent charms.”

            Terras’ brow furrowed. “Why Highgarden? Why not King's Landing?”

            “You’ve seen The Red Keep lately. Was it a place that particularly inspired romance?”

            No, it wasn’t. Death hung over that place, thick and asphyxiating as a fresh cloud of smoke. Besides, Terras was not sure he would want to see Sansa there again. It was clear to him with every move she made in The Red Keep was defensive, guarded. He wondered what she would be like somewhere like Highgarden, where she wasn’t constantly battling ghosts.

            “Consider my proposal, will you?” Tyrion downed his glass of wine in one last gulp and rose from his chair, before turning his attention to Alcander. “Now, this wine is quite good. Is there a cellar of it where I can lock myself until my ships departs?”

            “Right this way, my Lord.”

             Tyrion made for the door, where a steward was waiting to escort him away, but he stopped short and once again gave Terras his direct stare.  

            “Oh, and Prince Terras? Do keep in mind that Sansa Stark is now a queen. There will be other men to vie for her favor if you do not succeed. And I will make sure that whatever man takes her in hand is handsomely compensated. Perhaps with your crown.”

            And just as quickly as he’d come, he disappeared, presumably to crawl into the bottom of a bottle and stay there until the sails of his ships traveled back to Casterly Rock. Terras, for his part, stared at the place where the man had just stood, trying to plot his next move. 

            He hadn’t wanted to be Prince of Dorne. Some days, he wasn’t sure he was well suited for the position. He’d always been a protector, not a statesman or a master manipulator. But the way he saw it, the best way to protect the most people was by leading them, by being their prince or their King, and so he took the position. 

            Now, he was almost regretting it.

            “You have to do it,” Alcander said, finally cutting through the silence.

            “Don’t presume to tell me how to rule Dorne,” Terras said, darkly.  

            “Don’t presume that Dorne will still let you rule if you don’t accept Tyrion’s offer.”

            _Tyrion. Damn him_. Bile rose up in Terras’ throat as he thought of the callous way the man spoke of manipulation and deceit, of the way he both respected and feared the woman he’d once been married to. 

            _Fear_. That realization—that Tyrion feared Sansa enough to give Dorne its independence in the hope of keeping her small and occupied—suddenly relaxed all of the tense muscles in his body. No, he could defeat a frightened Tyrion Lannister. So long as he had Sansa on his side.             

            “Do you believe that Tyrion or our new king will keep his promise? Do you believe that they’ll actually give us independence in exchange for this little charade?” Terras asked.  

            “I don’t know.”

            “Neither do I. But what I _do_ know is that if they are afraid of Sansa Stark, then she is the one I want to cast my lot with. Let Tyrion believe I have said yes. Meanwhile, I shall pursue Sansa Stark in my own way. For our own reasons.”

            All at once, Terras was playing three levels of the same game. On the first, he was pursuing Sansa in the hopes of tricking Tyrion and keeping him at bay. On the second, he was pursuing Sansa in the hopes of forming an alliance with The North once Dorne finally won its freedom. And on the third, he was pursuing Sansa Stark because she intrigued him, because she awakened his senses, because he believed in her, and because he wanted her.  

            He would dance to Tyrion’s tune so long as it helped him achieve his real goals: a free Dorne…and, possibly, the love of Sansa Stark.

           Alcander gave a slight bow. “Very good, brother.”

            “Now, leave me.” Terras was not able to keep a smile from growing across his cheeks. “I have a letter to write.”

* * *

          Two letters sat in front of Sansa Stark. The first, she read with quick, if annoyed, ease, her eyes scanning Tyrion’s familiar script. It went on for pages about details and schedules and potential issues, but there were really only two important lines in the entire thing.   

 _**Your brother, the King of the Six Kingdoms**_ **, _requests the pleasure of your presence and your wisdom at a summit regarding the matter of Dornish independence. As the queen of a newfound independent kingdom, your insight into this discussion will be valued._**

Her eyes scanned over those two sentences again and again, mostly to avoid having to look at the second letter, the one that had arrived just as she’d arrived back into Winterfell after her morning ride through the snow. The letter she couldn’t stop thinking of every time she saw the (very much alive) Acarcis flower blooming in the terrarium near her fireplace.

            The arrival of the letter had shocked her. After receiving the flower, she’d dashed off her letter of reply quickly, hoping that he would cut off all further communication with her. She didn’t need the feelings he’d awoken in her. But no, the man had apparently persisted, and this letter was proof. Proof she wanted to avoid. 

            _Oh, this is ridiculous_ , she thought to herself. _You’re the Queen of the North, not some simpering little girl who is too afraid to read a letter from a boy_.

            She ripped the letter open with a quick movement of her hand, and let her eyes travel across his script. No matter how hard she tried, though, she couldn’t avoid hearing the words in his voice. The sound of it hovered in her mind, as if he’d somehow crept up behind her and whispered the words directly in her ears. She could hear his smirk from here, halfway across the world.

            Damn him for making her pulse race.

**_Queen Sansa, Wolf of The North, Liberator of Her People, Guardian of Winter, and Expert Composer of Correspondence,_ **

**_I am surprised that my hands didn’t burn up upon receiving your recent, fiery missive. Please accept my most sincere apologies regarding the death of the Acarcis. I concede that flowers from The North are stronger, but I knew that from the moment I met The North’s Queen._ **

Sansa rolled her eyes. Flatterer. He went on:

              ** _Furthermore, thank you for your heartfelt concern regarding my men. Rest assured, your message regarding the weather in Winterfell has been taken to heart. I shall inform my master of couriers to properly outfit my men in future, though, I believe that the next Dornish man who comes to Winterfell will be me. And as I’m sure you remember from our first meeting, I am nothing if not an expert dresser._**

**_I have been reliably informed that you will be attending a summit regarding independence for my people. My heart carries all the world’s respect for what you have done for the people of The North, and I can only hope that I will be able to live up to your example for the people of Dorne. I look forward to seeking you out and learning from your wise counsel in Highgarden, although I’m sure their flowers are not nearly as beautiful as the ones we have seen in the snow and in the desert._ **

**_Yours Most Sincerely,_ **

_**Terras.** _

 

            Sansa knew that, as Queen, she did not have to do Tyrion’s bidding. Or her brother’s, for that matter. Furthermore, she knew that just because someone had _informed_ Terras of her presence at the summit didn’t mean she had to guarantee it. She also knew that the way she read his words over and over again, the way her heart threatened to claw its way out of its cage again, was singularly dangerous.

            …And yet, without even looking up from the letter, she called to her young page.

            “Elisa?”

            The small girl tripped into the room, offering a clumsy curtsy that Sansa caught out of the corner of her eye. “Yes, your Grace?”

            “Call my advisors. I will be leaving on a diplomatic journey and need to begin preparations.”

            “Very good, your grace.”

            “But in the meantime, please make sure I am left alone. I have some correspondence to catch up on.”

            “Very good, m’am." 

            Once the little girl was gone, Sansa retired Terras’ letter, selected a fresh sheet of parchment, and inked her quill. Biting down hard on her lip to keep from smiling, she addressed him in a way befitting a man like him.

**_Terras Gadrios, Prince of Dorne, Purveyor of Cheap Sarcasm and Lord of Arrogance…_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all gave me such an INCREDIBLE response to the first chapter that I decided I just had to go ahead with the full story! How did you like our first Terras POV chapter? 
> 
> The next chapter will feature (among other things) snappy letter-writing, the triumphant return of Jeyne Pool, and Brienne of Tarth!
> 
> Again, I can't thank you all enough for loving this story and supporting it with comments and kudos and shares! Leave me a comment letting me know how you liked this second chapter and what you'd like to see in future chapters!
> 
> If you want to chat more about the story, about Game of Thrones or anything in general, follow me on juniorstarcatcherfiction on tumblr or over at jrstarcatcher on twitter!


	3. Chapter 3

 

The letters flew like flurries of snow between them, quick and soft and biting and too much and not enough all at once. Even now, as Sansa left her chambers for the parade grounds outside of her castle walls, readying herself to depart for Highgarden, she clutched at memories like snowflakes, grasping at snippets of lettered conversations as they danced around her mind.

 

>  
> 
> **_You are presumptuous to invite yourself to Winterfell, Prince Terras._ **
> 
> **_-Of course. My apologies. But please never be afraid to be so presumptuous as to invite yourself to Sunspear._ **
> 
> ****

 

> **_Your Highness, you forget yourself. You are speaking to a Queen._ **
> 
> **_-If I have forgotten myself, your Grace, then by all means, I deserve punishment._ **
> 
> **_You only embrace punishment because you know it means I will have to be close to you._ **
> 
> **_-I am transparent as a pane of Dornish glass, aren’t I?_ **

 

> _**-Will it be so miserable to be in my presence once again?**_ ****
> 
> **_You are more tolerable than most of the princes I have met. Do not let such a compliment inflate your ego any further, though. I should not wish Dorne destroyed because your arrogance grew too big to be contained within the walls of Sunspear._ **
> 
> ****
> 
> ****

 

> _**-Tell me of The North. Is it as beautiful as they say?**_
> 
> **_The North has never been called beautiful by anyone who isn’t Northern._ ** ****
> 
> **_-Ah, yes. My mistake. They were all saying that the Queen of the North was beautiful._ **

            As the words shared between them over nearly a dozen letters flew through her mind, Sansa clutched tighter the small case in her right hand. The rest of her things had been packed and loaded for her, stored away safely for the journey southward. But not this one. This one, her letters case, which contained her stationary, her seal, and every piece of correspondence Terras had ever sent her, was not going to leave her side. She trusted all of her people with her lives, but the thought of anyone farther south deciding to “inspect” her belongings didn’t sit well with her.

            It was best that her private correspondence was kept private, even if it meant she had to haul around that correspondence herself.

            Outside of the castle, everything was prepared for her departure. The small detachment of soldiers who would escort her waited for her orders. The horses were saddled and readied.

            And, just as she’d instructed, all of the castle’s children were there, too, lined up like a traveling wolf pack. She repressed a smile as she scanned the faces of the little ones; they’d all freshly washed and scrubbed, their clean, pink faces watching her approach with keen interest, shifting their weight from foot to foot anxiously, their little hands fidgeting as they did their best to follow the no doubt stern instructions of the caretakers (widows from the war against the dead) who Sansa had hired to look after them.

            Even now, as a Queen herself, Sansa could remember how she’d felt the first time she’d met Cersei Lannister. How all of the hopes she’d had for that woman taking her under her wing and loving her had been rewarded with harsh, bitter reality. She’d wanted that woman to be a mother and instead, she’d been the cruel woman’s plaything.

            Sansa would never be that way with the children of The North, not with any child, if she could help it. No, she would be as a mother to these lost children; here in Winterfell, she would be everything she’d wished for as a young girl in King’s Landing. Sansa had her innocence ripped away from her. She’d been forced to become her own protector. As long as she was Queen in the North, the children of The North would never be forced to endure what she’d endured.

            “Good morning, all,” she said smoothly, tipping her head in their direction.

            A smattering of curtseys and bows accompanied the ragtag collection of small voices saying, “Good morning, your Grace.”

            Taking on the cool air of a leader, she only allowed the warmth in her eyes to remind the children that she was mostly teasing them. she could remember her father doing the same with her brothers back when they were children, giving them Very Important Jobs to do whenever he was away from Winterfell. “I am going on rather a long journey. I shall endeavor to return home as soon as possible. But until then, I leave you all with very strict instructions to protect Winterfell in my absence. Is that understood?”

            “Yes, Your Grace,” they replied, eagerly, basking in the glow of her attention.

            “Mind your septas, mind your manners, and don’t track snow into the great hall if you can possibly help it.”

            Elisa stepped forward. “I’ll keep them in line, your Grace.”

            The little girl, with her dark hair and determined eyes, reminded Sansa so much of Arya that she couldn’t help but smile.

            “I’ve no doubt of that."

            And Sansa didn’t. after all, if the little girl was as much like Arya as she seemed, then she could probably single-handedly save the world, much less keep a few other children under control. Sansa tugged at her gloves and prepared herself for their final goodbyes, when a small girl—small enough that her little boots barely made tracks in the snow-covered ground—stepped forward and raised her hand.

            “Queen Sansa?”

            Strange. Most of the small ones were too afraid of Sansa or traumatized by the war to speak. Amusement tugged at Sansa’s lips as she knelt down to come eye-to-eye with her. “Yes, little one?”

            The little girl’s voice lowered to a whisper, as if she knew she was telling a secret she’d been asked not to repeat. “Are you going because there’s going to be another war?”

            Sansa’s heart caught. Every instinct, every cynical bone in her body, told her not to answer that question. But her pride—in herself, in her kingdom, in her people—refused to let this little child go to sleep tonight thinking her Queen couldn’t protect her. Maybe Westeros would fall to war. Maybe they would tear each other apart. But Sansa would never let it happen here. Never again.

            “No,” she said, her eyes and her smile soft as she tucked a loose strand of auburn hair back behind the child’s ear. “As long as Sansa Stark is the Queen of the North, we will never see war again.”

            Shortly thereafter, Sansa found herself atop her mount, and the caravan bound for Highgarden departing. As the people waved and wished her well, as the children shouted her name and promised to be good, she ground her jaw so tight it felt as though her teeth might break.

            Jon was gone. Arya was gone. Bran. Robb. Rickon. Theon. Her mother and father. Here in Winterfell, she could hold her people dear, hold them as family. But now, she left these gates as she would enter Highgarden.

            Alone.

            Pain gripped her, but she refused to bow to it. Holding her head all the higher, she nudged her horse on towards the gates.

            …Only to be stopped by a huffing, puffing sentry, who brought the entire caravan to a halt when he threw himself in front of her.

            “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! I must speak with you!”

            Sansa glanced at the soldiers before her and the carriages behind her. “I’m rather busy at present.”

            “There’s something you must see before you leave.”

            “And what is that?”

            “…A woman claiming to be Jeyne Pool has arrived. And she wants to see you.”

            Jeyne Pool. Sansa had not heard that name in years. All at once, there was nothing in her mind _but_ that name. She dismounted and handed the reins to a nearby page.

            “Take me to her now.”

            The sentry obliged, and with every step, Sansa struggled to maintain perfect image of a Queen she fought so hard to project. Her heart was a riot; her body was barely able to contain the emotions coursing through it. But it was nothing compared to the moment when she entered the reception hall and saw the small, gaunt figure with thinning brown hair and a broken posture, staring into the flames of the roaring fire as if it somehow held the answers to all of life’s questions and injustices.

            The name tumbled out of Sansa’s lips before she could remind herself to exercise caution.

            “Jeyne?”

            “Sansa?” Turning, the woman offered her full face, which sunk into something between a smile and a grimace, as if it had been so long since she’d smiled that she forgot how to do it. Either way, tears puddled in her eyes. “Sansa, the Queen of the North. As I live and breathe.”

            Hope grew in Sansa’s chest. Happiness too. Two emotions she hadn’t experienced in full in so, so very long. This was a ghost risen from the dead, her best friend, a piece of herself she’d thought she’d lost forever. Hope was a dangerous thing. So dangerous. Her system fought against it, unable to believe it was _really_ Jeyne.

            “What was your father’s name?”

            The maybe-Jeyne blinked and grabbed onto the mantelpiece for support. “What?”

            “I said, what was your father’s name?” Sansa said, not moving from the spot upon which she’d rooted herself. Her breathing was ragged now. Her heart desperate to believe that this was real, that she wasn’t been duped or tricked or sabotaged.

            “Vayon. He was your father’s steward.”

            “And our Septa’s name?”

            “Septa Mordane.”

            “What did we love above all else as little girls?”

            A small smile, unpracticed and raw, tugged at Jeyne’s lips. She spoke as if she were remembering something from another life, from a half-remembered dream. “Lemon cakes and Ser Loras Tyrell.”

             Sansa surveyed the woman’s face for another long moment. She looked like Jeyne. She sounded like Jeyne. But more importantly, when Sansa looked the woman in the eye, she saw what she saw every time she caught the sight of her own face in the glass: the look of survival.

             No matter how carefully she’d fought to maintain her mask, Sansa could not hold back the blizzard of emotions overtaking her. Not now. Not when she was finally, blissfully, mercifully, no longer alone in this world. She sprinted across the stone floor and threw her arms around the shivering form of her friend, holding her as if she were a tether to this very world, as if letting go meant her friend disappearing forever again.

            Sansa realized that she was crying. No, sobbing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d let herself do that. At least not in front of someone else.

            “Jeyne. They told me…Lord Baelish told me…You were dead. They told me you were dead.”

            “No,” Jeyne replied, her tears soaking through to Sansa’s long hair and the furs wrapping around her shoulders. “I only wished I was.”

             “But you survived.”

            “And so did you, Your Grace.”

             They held each other like that for longer than Sansa could count, long enough that their tears dried into salt on their cheeks and Sansa’s arms ached for holding her. Then, she remembered everything. The caravan. Highgarden. The Prince of Dorne. Pulling away, she sniffled and tried to bring herself back to the Queen she had been just a few minutes ago.

            “I…I am leaving Winterfell. Today. But I will delay. I will—”

            The firelight caught some shiny scars across Jeyne’s face, their zigzagging, haphazard lines digging into her skin. They’d healed, but they still left their mark. Sansa knew the feeling. Jeyne’s brow furrowed. “Why would you delay?”

            “Nothing is more important than a lost child of Winterfell returning. Nothing. We are what makes The North strong. And The North doesn’t forget that easily.”

            Jeyne ducked her head; Sansa knew exactly what she was thinking, that she wasn’t a child of the North anymore, that she was a different creature forged in the fires of all the Great Houses that had abused her. Sansa had felt much the same way when she first returned. But they were forged of ice and stone, of the very walls of Winterfell and the mountains in the distance. Jeyne would remember that soon; Sansa would help her.  “Where are you meant to be going?”

            “Highgarden. There is a summit regarding Dornish independence.”

            There was a pause. Jeyne considered this. “Don’t delay. I have been locked away in the darkness in Sharp Point for too long. I should like to see some sunshine, if you’re in need of a lady-in-waiting, my Queen.” 

            “I need no ladies in waiting. I need a friend.”

            “And so do I.”

            She did not have her brothers or her sister or her parents. But Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North, finally had a friend. And for the first time since she watched the wind fill the sails of Arya’s ships, she did not feel alone.

            It was a feeling she would do anything in the world to safeguard. 

* * *

 

It would not take Terras nearly as long to get to Highgarden from Dorne as it would take for Queen Sansa to travel from The North to their meeting place, but still, Terras longed to depart, as if his traveling to Highgarden would somehow bring their reunion faster.

            The people of Dorne hummed with excitement as the preparations for war slowed and preparations for his departure for the summit quickened. They spoke openly in the streets of freedom from Westeros, of freedom from the tyranny of King’s Landing. Baratheon, Lannister or Stark sitting on the throne, it didn’t matter. They wanted their liberation. And they waited with bated breath for the moment Terras would deliver it. And he would. Taking his brother’s advice, he was careful to spend his days and his public time devoted to the cause of their freedom. His every daylight thought was for his people and how he would deliver them from the cold grip of Westeros.

            But in the night…he always returned to their letters. Every time he sat down to write one to her, or to read one from her, or even to _reread_ one from her, it was as if he’d been holding his breath all day, and the simple act of speaking to her through parchment and ink was that first gasp of air filling up his lungs once more.

            Tonight, he slipped into bed, clutching the letter he’d been hiding in the pocket of his tunic all day. Only when he was in the safety of his own sheets did he dare to unravel Sansa Stark’s letter. After a long day of negotiations and debates, ideas and speculation, arguments and fiery disagreements, the thought of returning to her, of hearing her voice in his head, of running his eyes over her words and feeling her work in every line…it was better than sleep. It was relief. A refuge from the verbal wars of the day.

            Strange that a stranger could make him feel that way. But she wasn’t really a stranger now, was she? Just because she wasn’t physically close to him didn’t mean they weren’t close in other ways.

            He had the sneaking suspicion she was warming up to him. He hoped that this letter would confirm it. Going to Highgarden would make him feel like a King if he knew she was on his side.  

 

_**Prince Terras.** _

 

            The curt beginning wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but then again, _My dearest Terras, prince of Dorne and prince of my heart_ was probably too much to wish for this early in their relationship, anyway. He read on, noticing that this letter was longer than anyone that had ever come before. A tentative hope awoke in his chest.

**_In response to your last letter, I will say only this: Yes, I will miss The North every minute that I am away from it. The North is not only my kingdom, but my home. I will miss the snow fall and the wind at my window and the faces of the children who are under my protection in the castle. I will miss the sun rising over the snow. I will miss knowing that I am safe, rather than in a den of vipers, as is usually the case when I am in Westeros._ **

            After what she’d been through in Westeros, he didn’t blame her for feeling unsafe. And he vowed with everything within him that she would feel safe when he was around.   

 

 **_On this journey, however, I shall have some of The North with me. Not only in my men and my advisors, but in a dear friend who has returned after some time away._ ** ****

**_If you are to seek my counsel during this summit, I trust that you will treat Lady Jeyne Pool of The North with all of the respect and kindness and none of the snark with which you have treated me. If anyone so much as touches a hair on her head, I will rain down winter upon them. Do pass this message along to anyone else who will be in attendance._ **

            A smile pulled at his face—and his heart. He liked this side of Sansa Stark, the fiery, warrior-queen of the North. And he liked that she seemed to trust him, both with the knowledge of her friend’s arrival, and with the message that she was to be protected. Sansa trusted him, an honor he knew she didn’t bestow lightly.

            His heart tugged as he remembered what Tyrion had asked him to do. To betray his honor. To betray a woman who’d already survived a thousand fates worse than death. How could he even consider it when that woman was possibly the only good thing to come out of Westeros?

            But then, her letter turned. Her tone sharpened. And she dealt him a blow only she could deal.

 

 **_I expect this will be the last letter we share before we are both in Highgarden. Please do not presume that our exchange of letters will be enough to convince me that Dornish independence is in our best interest. Another free country could mean an alliance, or it could mean war and invasion. I will never do anything against the interest of The North. I will protect my people with everything that I am and everything that I have. That is my solemn vow, and I will betray it for no man._ ** ****

**_-Sansa, House Stark, Queen of The North._ **

            He must have reread the letter countless times, but by the end, he still couldn’t dull the ache it caused. In all the world, there was only one person he needed to prove himself to. Tyrion and King Bran and all the rest…He could crush them with his armies tomorrow if he so chose. They were nothing to him. But Sansa Stark…he had to earn her respect. He had to convince her that Dorne was a better ally alone than it was in Westeros, that it deserved its freedom just as The North did.

            So far, if her cold letter was to be believed, it seemed as though he’d failed.

            That night, his sleep was restless. And all of his dreams were of her, turning her back on him in a great, green field, and returning to The North without him. 

* * *

          Around sunrise, after half a night of uneasy sleep, Terras found himself in one of his great halls, watching over a team of servants as they presented him with all of the finery Dorne had to offer. Silks and brocades and woven tapestries, jewelry and gold, spices, pelts…They poured out of trunks and boxes, awaiting his approval before being shipped off to Highgarden.

            For an order given on such short notice, they’d really managed to fill the floor with luxuries. It seemed _everyone_ was eager for Dorne to get its independence, even if it meant lavishing Westeros with their goods.

            At least, that’s what he’d told the servants and his advisors was the purpose of this inspection. But when Alcander strolled up, rolling into the room like the sunshine pouring in through the open-ended hall, Terras knew he couldn’t hide the truth for much longer.  

            “Brother, what is this?"

            “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Terras said, sipping a strong, hot pepper drink that was common on Dornish mornings such as this one…ones where the drinker was _exceptionally_ tired.  

            “Flowers. Jewels. Desert fox pelts. Spices. None of this is going to serve any tactical purpose in Highgarden. The Westerosi already know of the wealth of Dorne; they are counting on keeping that wealth.”

            “Sansa Stark is not convinced of the cause of Dornish freedom,” Terras said. “And further, I do not think she likes me very much.”  

            “But you’ve been—”

            “I know what I’ve been doing.” And he knew how he’d failed. He did not need reminding. “I need to win her, Alcander. I must.”

            “And you think a woman like the Queen of the North is going to be won with pretty rocks and flowers?”

            No. Of course not. But that didn’t mean Terras wasn’t willing to at least _try_.

             “What did she _say_ in her letter? Her exact words.”

            “That she is devoted to the wellbeing of her people and the freedom of The North." 

            “Then perhaps you should not be wasting your time piling up pelts. Maybe you should use your time to convince her that her people—including her—are safe in Dornish hands. Be thoughtful. Be respectful. Be good to her and she will return the favor in kind.”

            Terras shook his head. Not for the first time, he was grateful to have his brother’s wise counsel. “Why must you always be right?”

             “Brother! Don’t say such things! I am _also_ very handsome.”

            “Thankfully it runs in the family.”

            Terras started to dismiss the servants and the goods they’d collected, while his brother made his exit. But before he could go, he called out to him once more. A memory tugged at the back of his mind, bringing him back to the letters tucked in a gilded box at his bedside. her letters. 

            “Oh, and Alcander?”

            “Mm-hm?”

            “She likes lemon. She mentioned it in one of her letters, getting lemon cake crumbs on the parchment. I want you to pack two wagons full of lemons. The freshest, most perfect lemons you can find. Understood?”

            Alcander bowed. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased.”

            Yes, the lemons were a gift. A gift that might not win him Sansa’s heart or respect. But at least it would make her smile. And, in the beginning, that would be enough for him.

* * *

             Ser Brienne of Tarth knew that in a knight’s life, one was bound to serve unconventional rulers. But in all of her training, all of her preparation for the day she’d one day be knighted, she never once thought she’d been serving under a King whose main attribute was seeing into the future, the past, and barely existing in the present.

            She would never say it aloud—she would never bring such dishonor upon herself, nor her King, nor the Kingdom she served—but frankly…she found the King’s presence disturbing. Unfulfilling. But the life of a knight was one of servitude and duty, not of comfort and preference.

            This was very much on her mind as she kneeled before the king in Chambers, waiting for him to withdraw from his milky-eyed trance to the land of the living.

            “Ser Brienne,” he finally said.

            She rose. “Yes, my King?”

            “You did not want to be named the head of the King’s Guard, did you?"

            Brienne stumbled over the abrupt question. She glanced to Tyrion, seated nearby and watching her with keen, pointed interest. Scattered books and maps and parchments sprawled out on the table in front of him. Preparations for his trip to Highgarden, she realized.

            In truth, Brienne had always wanted to be the head of the King’s Guard. But just not _this_ King’s guard.

            “It is an honor to serve you,” she said, diplomatically.

            “But you wished to be placed with Queen Sansa of The North. As the head of her Queen’s Guard. After the fall of the Red Keep, that was what you wanted.”

            “I am—”

            “Are you trying to lie to the Three-Eyed Raven and your King, Ser Brienne?”

            “No.” She ducked her head.  She was an awful liar anyway. Jaime had always said so, and coming from him, a masterful liar, she knew it was true. An expert could always spot a novice. And a Three-Eyed Raven-King could spot a lie before she’d even attempted it. “It would be foolish to try.”

            That hung in the air.

            “Then, go to her. Lead her Queen’s Guard. The Queen of The North is in danger and needs you more than anyone could ever realize.”

            Brienne’s hand instinctively went to her sword. If Sansa Stark was in trouble, she would be there to defend her.

            “What sort of danger, my King?”

            “If I told you, there would be no adventure now, would there?”

            With that, he dismissed her, but Tyrion followed close behind, speaking to her in confidence before the door to the King’s chambers could close between them.

            “There have been rumors that Ser Terras Gadrios of Dorne has been attempting to court Sansa. And she has done nothing to dispel his notions. Do bear it in mind.”

            “...I will.”

           As Brienne prepared for her travels to meet Queen Sansa, her mind raced. Tyrion had just come from Dorne. He could have kept the prince from pursuing Sansa if he’d commanded it…

            _Oh, no._ Sansa Stark was being betrayed by Tyrion, pursued by Terras Gadrios, and who knew what other dangers. That was all clear to her, as clear as writing in the ledgers of history. The Queen needed Brienne’s help. And Brienne would give her life if it meant saving her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You. All. Are. AMAZING! All of the comments and kudos and tweets and reblogs over on tumblr?? I cannot BELIEVE this little story and this little ship have taken off. I read each and every single one of your messages and comments and they have all truly made me the happiest writer in the world. 
> 
> This chapter had a LOT going on, so I can't wait to hear your thoughts or what your favorite parts were in the comments! And if you ever want to chat more about the story or GOT, I'm over on jrstarcatcher on twitter and juniorstarcatcherfiction on tumblr! I'm always down for talking and connecting with all of my fellow fans, especially now after the finale when we have so much to talk about!
> 
> Also, if you have any other great Sansa-centric romance fic (of any ship!) that you just absolutely ADORE, please let me know its title and writer in the comments! I want to expand my reading repertoire and find some great Sansa romance fics! Sansa Happiness Squad 2k19!


	4. Chapter Four

 

The Lords of Westeros were grumbling. Their shoulders were tense. Their conversations were muted. They favoured whispered curses to their nearby advisors rather than to one another, but everyone could hear snippets of everyone else’s conversations, turning the entire crowd of men into a bee-swarm of annoyance. Distrust hung in the air like the scent of cheap wine; irritation clung to them with all the ill-fitting darkness of their armour and woven tunics. 

But Terras, for one, was having a splendid time. 

“Trust a woman to make an entrance,” Edmure Tully stated, dusting invisible dirt from his gloves. He, apparently, still had not gotten over the fact that the entirety of Westeros wanted a celestial being trapped in a boy’s body as king instead of him. 

Yohn Royce didn’t take kindly to that remark, and it showed in every line of his grey, ageing face. “She’s not just a woman. She’s a Queen. And you’d do well to remember that."

“Must be nice to be a Queen,” came the terse, cutting reply of Yara Greyjoy. Her eyes then slid in Terras’ direction. “Or a prince.” 

There was an unspoken ending to that sentence. _Must be nice to be a Queen or a prince who fucks her._ The implication was clear in the iron of her eyes. But Terras merely smiled and pretended he hadn’t heard her, keeping his eyes on the gates of Highgarden, where they were all eagerly awaiting Sansa Stark’s arrival. 

She was two days late, much to the chagrin of all parties involved—Bronn had already twice threatened to cancel the whole affair and go to War with the North over the slight, only half-jokingly—but Terras couldn’t help but watch the horizon with a mixture of anticipation and admiration. 

Sansa Stark had a flair for the dramatic. What a wonderful thing to discover. Another thing they had in common. 

Just then, as the snarking and sniping reached its crescendo, Tyrion appeared, flanked by a handful of guards. The King himself had not deigned to attend this summit, but Tyrion assured them all he was here to negotiate in good faith on Bran’s behalf for the good of all parties involved. If this had been a real summit regarding Dornish independence and not a thinly veiled contrivance by Tyrion to get Terras and Sansa in the same room again, Terras might have been offended that the man thought so little of them. Surely he realised that they know he didn’t even know the meaning of the words “Good Faith."

Still, Terras didn’t object to the man’s running of the summit for two reasons: One, it was better him, a man who could be tricked or lied to or manipulated than the Three-Eyed Raven. And two, it meant that Sansa Stark was the most senior person at this little gathering. 

“They’re coming over the ridge just now,” Tyrion said, taking his place at the front of their little group. “Oh, Come on, everyone. At least try to look alive.” 

“Hard to do when they’re marching so slow. I’ll probably be actually dead by the time they get here,” Bronn groaned. 

The squabbling escalated again from there. Terras kept his gaze on the horizon. He, for one, didn’t blame Sansa or begrudge her any lateness. These men and men like them had kept her on the edge of a string, dancing to their tempos and to the tunes they played all her life. For once, they would have to wait on her. 

Terras would do the same thing once he was the leader of a Free Dorne. Perhaps, in the future when they were both free leaders summoned to a summit like this one, they could meet somewhere, together, and drink wine in the shade of an overgrown tree, laughing at how stupid everyone must have felt, waiting on them. Of course, she’d have to support a Free Dorne, which didn’t look very likely at the moment, but when it came to Terras’ fantasy life—where some of his dreams included he and Sansa on the twin thrones of Westeros, raising direwolf pups and warm-blooded children with perfect auburn hair, where the bones of everyone who’d ever raised a hand against Sansa lined the Dornish desert of banishment—logic or the infuriating strictures of reality rarely ever played a role. 

“It is of the utmost importance that this childish sniping comes to an end. Peace with the North is our top priority.” 

Tyrion shot him a look, one Terras did not return. He and Sansa would win a free Dorne without Tyrion’s help or his machinations. At least, that was Terras’ hope. Peace through an alliance with The North was preferable to war…But he _would_ still go to war if it was necessary. Doubt about Sansa’s trust in him crept into his mind.

…Only to disappear the moment he saw her.

Just as the sun crested beyond the Outer Ridge, the Northern caravan appeared, with Sansa Stark leading the charge. Red hair flowed in the wind behind her; her silver gown clung to her body like freshly polished armour. Her crown glinted in the sunlight, brighter than any sword and giving her the appearance of being crowned by wild flames.

She looked far more beautiful—and far more dangerous—than Terras remembered. His heart pressed wilfully against the cage of his ribs, threatening to break out and gallop to meet her. 

Through clench-jawed smiles, the Lords and Ladies of Westeros muttered their disapproval at such a display with every step she took closer to the castle…Or they not-so-gently _those_ people to kindly shove their opinions up their noble asses. Terras stayed out of it, but Alcander, who stood behind him as a member of the Dornish delegation, couldn’t help but release a low whistle.

“ _That’s_ the Queen of the North?” 

Terras nodded, not trusting himself to speak of Sansa in such mixed company. If he was going to gain Dornish independence without manipulating Sansa, then he needed to play his hand closely and carefully, especially where she was concerned. The Westerosi were vipers and information was their venom. 

“Oh, Brother,” Alcander muttered, shaking his head. “What do you think _she’d_ want with _you?”_

The joke was nearly enough to break the tension tightening Terras’ chest. Almost. When Sansa arrived and dismounted, she approached Tyrion first. 

“My Lord Tyrion. I can see you know how to welcome a Queen,” Sansa said, her face betraying nothing. 

“Only the best for you, Queen Sansa. May I present the rest of the Westerosi delegation—”

But Tyrion didn’t get the chance to perform his first ceremonial duty—the naming of the Counsel. Instead, Sansa removed her gloves, exposing her hands to the Southern warmth. Terras surveyed her with guarded interest. How did she feel being here, facing down a group of men with dubious intentions and eyes on controlling her throne? How did the hot Southern sun feel against her strong Northern skin? When would she look at him, and show him those piercing eyes he’d been dreaming about since the night he met her? 

“Yes, Tyrion,” Sansa intoned. Only a small smile lurking at the corner of her lips gave away her amusement. Terras had to wonder if anyone else even noticed what a good time she was having. “My memory is good enough to recall the names of people I saw not three months ago.” 

Tyrion blinked, but recovered with an uneasy smile. _Yes_ , Terras thought, _You’re right to be frightened of her_. “Very good, Your Grace.” Shall we show you and—” He took in the sight of two women who had dismounted and found their way to Sansa’s side—a dark-haired woman whose long locks could not conceal a map of angry scars drawing silvery lines across her face, and a lady knight Terras recognised as Ser Brienne, the one who’d been named to the first King’s Guard of Bran. “—You and your delegation to your chambers?” 

“We’d be obliged. We’ll all wish to rest after our journey and change before the feast tonight.” 

“Feast?” Bronn queried, practically choking on the word, his eyes bulging. It seemed that no one had informed the Master of Coin how much money this little summit would be costing him. 

Sansa had a light, easy way of sending these men to the edges of madness. Terras wanted to learn her every secret. 

“You’re entertaining a Queen, Lord Bronn.” She then nodded to Yara and Terras in turn, but her eyes barely brushed him, leaving him craving more. “And possibly two more sovereigns, a Prince of Free Dorne and Queen of the Iron Islands. Did you plan to solve the King’s control over the South and the Seas by starving us all?” 

Bronn opened his mouth. Tyrion stomped on the man’s foot and began leading Sansa and her small delegation away towards the castle. “We’ll be feasting tonight, Your Grace. Pleasure before business and all that. Now, shall we—”

Tyrion was taking her away. Too fast. Terras’ body moved before his mind had fully consented. Stepping forward, he was ready to speak to her again as they had in their letters—all sharp wit and slightly concealed feelings. But no sooner had he taken that first step towards Sansa than Ser Brienne intercepted him, moving abruptly into his path and withdrawing her sword halfway from its hilt. 

Terras had never had the misfortune to meet a dragon before, but he was almost certain the look Brienne gave him in that moment was cold enough to freeze Dragon Fire in mid-air. His blood chilled. Brienne only uttered one sentence at him, through clenched teeth. 

“You forget yourself, Dorne.” 

“Yes, of course,” he said, not wanting to enter Sansa’s space if she did not want him there.He offered the knight a slight bow, but she’d already caught up to her mistress before Terras could mutter: “Forgive me.”

Without another word, Terras stepped back, watching as Sansa and Tyrion walked towards the castle side-by-side. With every step she took away from him, he prayed a single thought. _Look back at me. Please, look back at me, Sansa_. 

But the Queen of the North did not answer his silent prayers. At the great rose-carved doors, though, she stopped short and nearly turned her head back towards the assembled parties. Terras’ heart caught. _Call to me. Say anything. Say my name—_

“Yara Greyjoy. Will you walk with me?” 

The leader of the Ironborn’s face almost betrayed her surprise. But then, she nodded and rushed to the Queen’s side. And then, they both disappeared from view, disappearing within the walls of the castle. 

The yard was still full. Lords, dignitaries, Maesters, all crowded around and talked, giving each other orders and insults. The crowd was very much all around him, and yet, Terras really felt quite alone. 

* * *

Sansa _had_ turned back to say something to Prince Terras. But before she could manage it, doubt wrapped its hot, sticky fingers around her throat—what could she say to Terras Gadrios that wouldn’t ruin everything?

If she let her heart rattle its way out of its cage and speak for her, even if she only said something vaguely polite, everyone would believe that anything she did was because of him. If she supported Dornish independence, they would say it’s because he fucked her. If she didn’t, they would say she was angry because he wouldn’t. 

And if she had turned around and said something needlessly cruel to him…Well, no matter what Brienne had said to her this morning as they made their final approach to Highgarden—remember, my lady, to watch yourself…your mind, your kingdom, and your heart—she just didn’t want to be cruel to him. She didn’t have the cruel in her to even try and aim it in his direction. 

No. She had a plan. A plan that would eventually lead her to Terras, but not directly. A plan to a more free world stopped first at Yara Greyjoy’s feet. She needed to stick to that plan if she was going to leave this place with the safety and sovereignty of The North in tact. 

It wouldn’t be easy. But she would do her best. She would not return to Winterfell a failure. Not with so many people counting on her. 

Easily, she dismissed Tyrion. And she ordered Jeyne and Brienne to walk a safe distance behind them, so she and Yara could speak in confidence. This would be the hardest conversation Sansa had here at Highgarden. It was the one she dreaded the most. But it was necessary. For all their sakes. 

And for Theon’s memory. He owed it to him to see his homeland—and his sister—freed. 

“Your Grace,” Yara said, by way of greeting. 

It was clear she wasn’t particularly thrilled at being summoned. 

“Yara,” Sansa answered. 

“Well, whatever it is, get it over and done with.” 

Sansa peered at the woman through the corner of her eyes, and was surprised by how much of Theon she saw there. The ache in her chest at the sight of Theon’s eyes in another’s face almost knocked the wind from her lungs. She kept her gaze to the floor of the courtyard corridor after that. 

“I know it must have been you who let Theon return to Winterfell,” Sansa said. 

“And he got himself killed for all my kindness.” 

As much as Yara played at being the hardest woman in Westeros—and she probably was, by Sansa’s estimation—Sansa recognised that hardness. It was the same game she played at when she wanted no one to know how she truly felt. Emotions welled up deep within Sansa’s breast. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Your Grace, if you’re going to be Queen, then you’d better not go around showing weakness like that to just anybody,” Yara said, squirming under Sansa’s softness. But there was a smile tugging at the corner of her sharp words, lessening their blow. 

Sansa wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of her riding gown. Only one traitor tear had managed a daring escape. She’d done so much crying over Theon that she almost forgot how to recognise when the tears were coming. She sniffed. _No more tears. You’re here to honour Theon’s memory. He wouldn’t want you to cry. Not anymore. Not when you have the power to do something besides cry._

“Well, maybe I’m not talking to just anyone. Maybe I’m talking to the right-wise ruler of The Iron Islands. Without Westeros.” 

Yara’s attention was fully in hand now. She matched her pace with Sansa’s. Skepticism was written in her every muscle, but Sansa knew what a woman looked like the first time someone believed in her. Complete faith that they were lying to you, but complete hope that they weren’t. 

“You intend to support my claim to free the Iron Islands?” 

“If you make such a claim, I am interested. With Dorne’s independence at hand, we have an opportunity to squeeze Westeros. You by the sea, me in The North, and the prince of Dorne to the South. Three allied, but independent, strong kingdoms holding them from every direction could keep Westeros at peace forever.” 

And that was all Sansa wanted. Peace. Peace and rest. For everyone. It sounded too good to be true, her offer. If someone had made it to her, she would have scoffed in their faces. Yara did just that. 

“And why would you want that? Why would Prince Terras want that? The Iron Islands could be a real threat to you both. We take what we want and what we need.” 

“It’s a bit difficult to sail ships through the snow or in the desert, just as Northmen would die in the South or at sea. We’re all too different to be any kind of real threat. And we all have the same goal.” 

“And that is?”

“We all want to save our homes. We all want peace. And we all want to stop the Westerosi from—” 

“Ever fucking with us again?” Yara asked. 

Sansa smirked. “I was going to say _meddle in our affairs_ , but yes. Your description is even more accurate.” 

“Why should I trust you? A Northman killed my Queen.” 

“A Queen who never would have given you your freedom. I’m a Queen who will.” 

Yara stopped then. Her boots halted their heavy, indelicate clunking on the stone floor beneath her. Sansa, too, stopped, careful not to let a single one of her emotions betray her. 

“You are not the same little girl Theon used to write about in his letters. I can see why he loved you.” 

Sansa’s eyes burned, but she wouldn’t let tears fall. Not this time. Not when the words were as true as any she’d ever said before. “I loved him, too.” 

“He was a good man,” Yara said. “Or, he became one, at least. You don’t see that enough in this world.” 

For some damned reason, Terras’ face flashed in Sansa’s mind. She shook her head to erase him. Yara sniffed and changed the subject, a feat for which Sansa was eternally grateful. Thinking of Theon was a terrible, beautiful burden, just like thinking of Jon. So much love and respect and trust wrapped up with so much pain. Of course, she loved them both in different ways, but the effect they had on her now, when she’d lost them both forever, was the same. 

“You know,” Yara said, continuing their walk along the promenade, “Now that you’re Queen, they’ll all be wanting to marry you.” 

Again, Terras appeared in Sansa’s mind. “Every man who ever married me or tried to is dead. Except for Tyrion, who wishes he was. No man will want to marry me and the North doesn’t need a king.” 

“No. I suspect they don’t.” Respect, hard-earned and new, settled in around Sansa’s shoulders. She’d always wanted to rule with love, always wanted people to love her, and yet, she was always surprised when it happened. No, Yara didn’t love her yet, but that respect she felt in her gaze was almost as good. Even better, the woman rewarded her with a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. “We could get married, if you like. Shore up our alliance with wedding vows.” 

Sansa almost smiled in response. “If you’re anything like your brother, Yara Greyjoy, then you’re too good for me.” 

Their conversation ended shortly thereafter, as Yara excused herself to tend to her men, leaving Sansa alone with Jeyne and Brienne, who caught up with her. Brienne’s return to Sansa had been a happy one, and as she’d walked into Highgarden, she hadn’t felt a lick of fear or indecision, knowing Brienne was on her side. But now…Sansa’s head swirled with thoughts of Theon…And of Terras. And of the battle they all had before them. 

Independence for Dorne was useless—and risky—if the Iron Islands weren’t free. They needed the threeallied nations together if they were going to keep the peace in this world. But could she trust the prince? 

“Brienne…” Sansa asked, staring at a wall of roses climbing up the side of the castle. “Do you think men can be good?”

Without turning away from the small garden enclosed within this rectangular turret of the castle, Sansa could feel both Brienne and Jeyne tense up behind her.

“I know that men can be good, Your Grace. I have seen it.” 

The distance in the knight’s voice meant she was almost certainly speaking of Jaime. Sansa fought the urge to scoff. If Tyrion’s accounts of his crimes were to be believed, then Jaime had abandoned Brienne to be with Cersei again. Not exactly the sort of ringing endorsement for Mankind’s innate goodness Sansa had been longing for. But Brienne was not finished. 

“But if this is in regards to a specific man in particular, then I would advise caution, Your Grace.” 

Sansa swallowed. This was all a game with very high stakes. And she intended to win. Perhaps she had to admit once and for all—no matter how her heart protested—that his intentions weren’t good. 

He was going to get what he was after. And he thought he could use her to get it. 

Well, Sansa Stark was done with being used. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! It's a little late because my computer died on me so I had to write this all by hand and type it up on my library's computers, but the good news is...This is a double update! Right after I post this chapter, I'm posting chapter five, too! I wanted to post it as one long chapter, but it's soooo long that I wanted you all to have a chance to read them separately if you wanted to! Anyway, I can't wait to hear what you think of this chapter and of Yara joining the mix! She was fun (and tricky!!) to write, so I can't wait to hear your thoughts!


	5. Chapter Five

Anyone could see that the feast was a hastily thrown together, slap-dash affair. Not that Sansa minded. She couldn’t have cared less about mead and puddings and revelry. What she was after was information. Any and all information she could get her hands on—who was her ally, who were her enemies, and who could hold their liquor. 

Bronn, for example, could not be trusted. Not to hold his temper, not to hold court, and certainly not to hold his liquor. No sooner had Sansa entered the Great Hall—to bows and curtseys from everyone, as befitting her station—Bronn leaned back on the hind two legs of his chair, let out a loud belch, and roared, “Well, the Queen graces us with her presence yet again. Hope the festivities are to your satisfaction.” 

Or, at least, that’s what Sansa thought he said. There was a great deal of slurring involved, so she couldn’t be completely certain. But there were three things of which Sansa _was_ certain. 

One: Terras had not taken his eyes off of her from the moment she entered the room. 

Two: The room was too loud, too crowded, and too dominated by men for her to leave Jeyne alone in the crowd.

And three: Sansa’s seat at the High Table was the only one left open, despite her repeated requests that she and Jeyne be placed near one another. 

Sansa moved purposefully towards one of the lower tables, where several empty seats could easily be found. 

“Your Grace,” Tyrion piped up, pointing to the place of honour at the High Table. “Your seat is at the head of the room. The only place fit for a Queen.”

With her back turned to Tyrion, she allowed herself the indulgence of narrowing her eyes. At Winterfell, the Queen sat among the people at meals and celebrations and revels. That, in her opinion was _really_ the only true place for a Queen to be. But this was Westeros. And she had to play their games with the lots she’d drawn. 

“Is it? I assumed I was down here, given by request for Lady Jeyne to sit at my side. The only two seats left open are down here.”

Bronn guffawed, pointing crudely in Jeyne’s direction. “That little thing, a lady? I’m more lady than her!” 

Robin Arryn piped up, clearly eager to earn his place here among the proper Lords at her expense. “Your Grace, this table is for the _royalty_ of Westeros and The North, not the Common Folk play-acting. We will not—”

Sansa opened her mouth to humiliate the boy and send him crying back to his chambers like the child failing at make-believe that he was. Her blood boiled. Even if they didn’t care about the Common Folk—which, clearly, they didn’t—she was Queen. She could give anyone she wanted any title she desired. Who were they to question her? 

But a scraping of wood against stone echoed out into the room. And Terras Gadrios stood to his full, intimidating height, though his soft, relaxed features kept him from being truly terrifying. He offered his chair at the High Table, the one that had been positioned next to Sansa’s empty one. 

“My Lady, my seat is yours.” His voice tensed as he shot Robin Arryn a withering look. "I prefer the company of the Common Folk anyway.” 

Sansa scoured Terras’ face for any sign that this was a trick or a manipulation on his part. She found nothing there but the genuine smile he wore when he joined his advisor—his brother, Alcander? She recognised Terras’ descriptions of his scars—at the lower table. 

The feast continued naturally after that. And from her seat at The High Table, Sansa had the perfect view from which to survey the prince at a safe distance. She couldn’t puzzle him out. And if he had been any other man in the world, she wouldn’t have tried. Brienne was right. Men could be good. They just usually chose not to be. 

What choice was Terras making? She’d been so sure his intentions were bad. But still…her heart protested, again and again and again, no matter how many times Sansa tried to silence it. 

“So, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, filling her wine glass for the first time that evening. “What do you think of Highgarden?” 

“Not what I expected.” 

“Oh? The castle or the company?’

His eyes trailed questioningly towards Terras. Sansa picked up the wine glass and pretended to sip from it, buying her time. She never drank in public; she would not be like Cersei Lannister, who couldn’t function unless her blood was mostly wine. No, she preferred to let everyone else lower their inhibitions. It made storing away their secrets for later so much easier. 

“Lord Baelish had me married to you instead of the heir to Highgarden. I spent so many nights, laying awake, dreaming of this place. Flowers and singers and love around every corner. It was like something out of the pages of a storybook, the way my mind imagined every detail Margery told me.” 

“And how does the dream compare with the reality? There are a few princes in our midst, just like your storybooks.” 

“Nothing in existence can compare to the desperate dreams of a little girl trapped in a nightmare.” 

That came out sharp. Harsh. But she did not regret it. Tyrion stared into his cup as though he could disappear. Sansa continued. 

“But I suppose my main complaint is that there’s no—”

“No whores?” Brown finished for her, obviously quite pleased with his little joke. “No, you’re absolutely right, your highness, we should get some right away—”  


“No, my Lord. That’s quite alright. I was going to say there is less music than I’d hoped. I was always told Highgarden was a very musical, artistic place.” 

This seemed to catch the attention of a few eavesdroppers, including Terras, who turned away from the conversation he was engaged with at his table and turned towards Sansa and the rest of the nobles, raising an impertinent eyebrow and a broad, infuriatingly handsome smile in her direction. 

“Are you fond of music, then, Your Grace?” 

“Why, Lord Terras?” She raised an eyebrow of her own. “Are you going to honour us with a song?” 

“I would, but I only sing duets.” 

His eyes met hers. They were challenging, but warm. He was joking with her. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had joked with her. The confines of her dress suddenly felt unbearably close, suddenly too tight, and it had nothing to do with the apple bread she’d been eating all night.

He was charming. Handsome. He seemed good. And that was a dangerous combination. Rising from her chair, she granted him the smallest of smiles to show that she wasn’t offended. 

“I believe that is my cue to leave. I shouldn’t want to be roped into any duets. I shouldn’t like to be roped into any embarrassing musical displays tonight.” 

Terras mirrored her, raising from his chair and offering a courtly bow. 

“And what about a walk? Could I rope you into something like that?”

“Why? Are the steps between here and my chambers especially dangerous?” 

Brienne also rose from her seat. Sansa was all too aware the way that Tyrion, at least, was watching this exchange, taking stock of every move and every word. The other Lords and Ladies were too drunk by now to pay them much attention, but even drunk, Tyrion was sharp as ever. 

“She has protection,” Brienne intoned. A warning. 

“Of course you are safe, Queen Sansa. I was hoping that you and your knight could protect _me.”_ There was that smile of his again. She ought to have someone issue a public health warning about that; it was infectious. He offered her his arm. “It’s dangerous out there for a Prince these days.”

From the floor where Brienne was stationed, she and Sansa shared a look, a slight communication that Sansa wasn’t afraid. And thus, Brienne stood down. 

“It’s fine, Brienne.” 

As the Lords and Ladies continued their revelry, Sansa moved to the floor of the great hall, took the Prince of Dorne’s arm, and allowed him to lead her from the chamber, with Brienne travelling close behind. 

Too close. Sansa couldn’t have anyone thinking that her own Queen’s guard was fretting over her safety. Out in the corridor, Sansa stopped and spoke to her knight. 

“Ser Brienne, walk ahead. He won’t kill me yet. That would ruin his plan.” 

“And what is this plan I’m supposed to have?” Terras asked as Brienne made her way back towards their chambers. 

“The one where you seduce me in order to win my support for a Free Dorne,” Sansa said, as easily as discussing the weather instead of her fate. 

He snorted.

“Do you deny it?” 

“My mother taught my never to lie, so I will tell you the truth. I do not deny wanting to seduce you and I don’t deny wanting your support for a Free Dorne. But I do deny that the two are linked.” 

Her stomach twisted as the word _seduce_ passed his lips. Just a little word that sounded perfectly sinful coming from his mouth. She tried not to think about the gentle, sensuous sensation of his arm linked through hers, of the way he slowed his pace to match her shorter ones instead of dragging her along behind him as so many men liked to do. 

Small things. But things she noticed all the same. Sansa always found it was the small details that made all the difference, especially when it came to men. 

She sniffed. “I thought you would have given up on this little act of being interested by now. After all, you have the armies. You could just take your freedom.”

“And risk the lives of my people? The use of armies means you’re willing to let them die and I’m _not_ willing to let my people die if there’s anything I can do to stop it.” 

The passion, the righteous devotion, in his voice took her aback. Not because it frightened her, but because she understood the feeling. She wasn’t sure there was a man in Westeros—not anymore, not with Jon gone— who knew what it felt like to want to actually protect their people instead of using them as human shields in the game of war. Sansa stopped at the juncture of corridors at the centre of Highgarden. Turning left would bring her to her quarters. Turning right would bring her out into the gardens and extend her time with Terras. 

She turned left, but told herself it had nothing to do with Terras. No, after being inside all night, she needed some crisp, fresh air. That was all. 

“Besides, taking things by force has never been my style. I only really find pleasure if both parties are willing and eager. Very willing and very eager.” 

His voice had lowered. Slowed down. But her pulse was racing. 

And so was her irritation. If this man was playing with her emotions—and he almost certainly was—then it was cruel to let her hear even think for a second that anything it felt was real. She set her jaw and raised her chin and extricated her arm from his. Long strides carried her from inside the castle to one of Highgarden’s most magnificent yards. Every petal clung with evening dew, dew that glinted in the moonlight. 

“You’ll be pleased to know you can stop the pretending now. I have spoken to Yara Greyjoy. If she bids for her independence, I’ll support you both.”

“...You will?”

“Under the agreement that we fence in Westeros and keep them in line.” 

He was speechless, a feat she didn’t know what possible. As she inspected a silvery rose, she glanced up at him from under her eyelashes. The joy in his eyes, the gratitude…it all looked real. And it came at a moment when he didn’t know she was watching. Either he was a very, very good liar or she’d just given him a gift he hadn’t been expecting. 

“Your Grace. I don’t know how to—”

“There. Your interest in me and your little shows of favour can conclude. Are we quite done here now?” 

She waited for the act to slip away. It did not. In fact, his eyes narrowed in confusion. 

“After the letters, after what we’ve shared, you really still believe that’s why I’m interested? You really think that’s the kind of man that I am?” 

Sansa’s body was at war, a worse war than any the Seven Kingdoms had ever fought before. Her mind repeated Littlefinger’s words, words that had served her so painfully well over the years. Her heart, meanwhile, begged for freedom from those words and their terrible truth. She refused to look at him. Seeing his soft eyes, his tender smile would have only made the reality of their situation worse and the truth harder to swallow. Believing the best in him was a mistake. She just had to accept it. “Sometimes, when I try to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What’s the worst reason a person has for doing what they’ve just done? What’s the worst reason you could have for your sweetness, for your attention, for your flower, for your letter, for your little show with Jeyne? Simple. Because you know I’m the most powerful person in the seven kingdoms and you want to use me.” 

Instead of exploding in anger and throwing a tantrum over his own motives, instead of turning the accusation back on her or any of the other things she would have expected a man in his place to do, Terras leaned back on a nearby support wall and watched as she wandered the flowerbeds, his voice light.

“Interesting game. How has it worked for you so far?” 

“Nearly perfectly.” 

“I have a similar game. May I tell you how I play it?” 

Sansa nodded, once, not willing to give him more than that. She focused on a purple flower she’d never seen before, a brilliant construction of razor-thin petals stretching out to create a magnificent bloom. 

“When I am trying to guess someone’s motives or the outcome of a decision, I think— _what would happen if they mean me well? What would happen if all of the good things I’m hoping for actually come to pass? What if the things I deserve actually become mine?_ What if the people name me Prince of Dorne? What if the Westerosi give my people their freedom?” She glanced up at just the wrong moment. His eyes met her. And they seemed to find their way into her very soul. He stepped forward, leaving the safety of his wall and wandering out towards her flower bed.“What if the Queen of the North could even think of someone like me the way I think of her?” 

“And how has that worked out for you so far?” 

“I’m still waiting on two of those questions. But I haven’t given up hope.” 

The moment between them shattered at that word. Sansa scoffed, but she did not leave her flowerbed or break away from his stare. 

“Hope is for children.” 

“Hope is for the living, Queen Sansa.” His finger tips brushed against the purple of the flower she’d just been admiring, but he was careful not to disturb the delicate petals. She couldn’t help but wonder…would he be so gentle touching her? She’d never been touched gently by a man before, not in any way that mattered. “If you are living, you should have hope in something. And maybe in someone.”

Sansa straightened and left her flowerbed. No good would come of thinking of his soft hands or his easy touch or the way he still looked at her even though she’d promised to give him everything he wanted. Terras joined her, walking by her side in silence as they meandered the perimeter of the gardens, along the castle walls that lined them. He didn’t force the conversation, didn’t try to push her in any direction she didn’t want to go. He followed her lead, took her hints, and seemed content to just enjoy the night with her. 

And then they reached the west end of the garden, where he stopped, and pointed to a towering tree sidling up to the castle wall. His face lit up the garden better than any moon. And his stopping short meant she, too, had stopped short. It brought them closer than she could ever remember them being before. 

“How do you like your tree?” 

“My what?” 

“Your lemon tree. I had it brought from Dorne and planted here for you. Tyrion tells me the branches reach your window. I was going to just bring you a full wagon of lemons, but this seemed better. Then, they would be fresh for your entire trip. Do you like it?” 

Sansa was too speechless to like it. She blinked, first at him, then at the tree. 

“You brought me—”

He shrugged. “You mentioned in your letters that you liked lemon cakes. I remembered.” 

_Don’t feel anything for him. Don’t let yourself_. But even as she spoke, she knew her heart was winning its war against her mind. She took a step even closer to him. “Prince Terras, you cannot win me with gifts.” 

“I am not trying to.” 

“Then why?” 

She searched his face, desperate to find something to hate. But there was no room in her soul for it. Especially not when he brought his hand up to her warm cheek, and she discovered that she was right. He did touch her with all of the softness, with all of the reverence, that he touched the delicate flowers out in this garden. 

She wasn’t a delicate thing. But she knew, from their letters, that he didn’t think flowers were delicate. He didn’t think _she_ was delicate. So many men thought she was delicate and tried to rip out her petals; Terras knew she was strong and treated her gently anyway. 

“Because you deserve every bit of happiness that this life can give you. And whenever it is within my power, you shall have it.” 

Were his lips as soft as the rest of his touch? The thought had barely crossed Sansa’s mind when a hard voice behind her shattered the moment.

“Your Grace,” Ser Brienne’s voice called, cutting across the garden. “Lady Jeyne is asking after you.” 

Sansa barely managed to get the words out before striding across the garden…away from him and away from the lemon tree he’d brought her, but not away from the feelings he awakened within her. She could not outrun those. 

“It’s late. Goodnight, Prince Terras.” 

“Goodnight, Queen Sansa.” 

* * *

 

Up in her rooms, hours later, Sansa couldn’t sleep. Her lips tingled and her mind raced; her entire body ached, but no matter how she blamed the horse she rode this morning, she could not place the blame on the animal’s flanks. 

She’d carefully avoided her window all evening, but now…She knew she at least had to look. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she rose from her bed and crept to her window, opening it up to let in the cool night air. 

And there it was, just outside of her window as promised: a young, yawning, lovely giant of a tree, growing up to the heavens and passing her room along the way. Sansa reached out for a bright yellow fruit. Her fingertips brushed the skin, sending a wave of its bright scent straight to her nose that invaded her mind. It smelled like dreams and hope, two things she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time. 

Sansa returned to bed, but did not close the window. instead, she crawled beneath the sheets and let the gentle scent of rain and lemon coax her into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

* * *

The rains had come to Highgarden. The man overlooking the castle from the light of a lamp he held overhead on the Western ridge knew these rains—and the palace it rained over—all too well. It would make sleeping out here on the road difficult, but he welcomed the downpour. The rain would make Highgarden flourish, would bring even more beauty and wealth to the castle.

Tomorrow, he would make his final walk home. Tomorrow, he would sleep in a Lord’s bead. 

Because tomorrow he, Willis Tyrell, would return to Highgarden and take back what was rightfully his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I promised a double-update, didn't I? Well, Terras and Sansa have officially gotten back together again...What did you think of their reunion? 
> 
> And what do you think of the return of the eldest Tyrell? (He is a book character that I'm resurrecting! I hope you guys like him and all of the complications he brings up!)


	6. Chapter Six

 

     Prince Terras had been out on the training grounds of Highgarden since the early hours, when the world was still dark and the wind through the flowers still sleeping, swinging a sword. And even after hours of practice and repetition, of forms and feints, he still couldn’t get his damn head to work in time with his damn feet and arms.  

     He cried out as his brother swung too fast for Terras to keep up, slicing his arm straight through his tunic. Alcander smiled, and lazily arced his blade as Terras bent to inspect the superficial wound. 

     “You’re unfocused, brother.” 

     “You think you need to remind me of that?” Terras hissed, dropping his blade to the ground so he could relieve himself of the now thoroughly bloodied tunic. All night and all morning, Alcander had been putting him through his paces, and all night and all morning, Alcander had been getting the better of him. He had the fresh wounds to prove it. 

     All around them now, as breaking morning approached with warm fingers that would shatter the night chill, soldiers of Dorne and Highgarden and King’s Landing and The North scuffled about, readying themselves for a morning of training while the Lords and Ladies of Westeros and beyond spent their hours debating the finer points of Dornish freedom. Yara Greyjoy was rumored to be making her official petition today for independence, too, so the possibility of war swirled over the yards of Highgarden like low-hanging clouds. 

     Terras picked up his sword once more, and readied himself for another bout, blood be damned. He wouldn’t let the soldiers surrounding him—his soldiers or anyone else’s—see him as a battlefield weakling. No, if the plan for Dornish independence failed, he would need them to know him as the fearsome warrior he usually was. 

     Usually. When he wasn’t thinking of Queen Sansa. Had she liked the tree? Had she thought it an insult? Did she think of him every time the wind blew the scent of lemon into her bedroom? Did she hate him for it?

     He didn’t know. But it was beginning to affect his work as Prince, and he couldn’t allow that. For now, at least, he needed to shake her from his mind. Squaring his shoulders, he adjusted his hands on his blade and readied himself for another round. Alcander swung his blade; Terras rose to meet it. His brother stared him down.

     “I think I need to remind you of the promise you made me. Dorne _must_ come first. Not your Queen.”

     “Everything I do, I do for the good of Dorne.”

     A cool, blade’s edge voice cut across the practice ground.

     “Is that true, your highness?”

     In his rush to greet the intruder, Terras nearly dropped his sword. A few paces outside of the dirt ring where he and his brother had been sparring all morning, stood the iron statue of a woman who served as Lady Sansa’s Queensguard. Terras wasn’t a small man by any stretch of the imagination; his muscle and his height often scared off other men alone. But in her towering presence, for the first time in his life, he cowered slightly, only to recover and adopt his princely persona. He couldn’t let his men see him waver. “Ser Brienne. What an unexpected honor.”

     Where most men and women would have fallen to his charms, she did not even crack a smile at his flattery. Instead, her clanking armor carried her into the practice arena. The packed red dirt brushed like blood against her boots, an ominous sight. “Your form is loose. Care to spar?”

      “With you?”

      “Unless you are afraid?”

     “No. I’m not afraid.”

     That was a lie. Terras knew that only a fool or a man with a death wish would be unafraid of Brienne of Tarth. She’d fought against the armies of the dead alongside a one-armed man and a squire and come out the victor; she was, perhaps, the most dangerous creature in Westeros when it came to wielding a sword.

     Her skills with a blade weren’t his only trepidation though. Alone, it was a fearsome quality in an of itself…But when paired with the stories told about the lengths to which Brienne of Tarth had gone to protect Queen Sansa, to save her life…It was a combination that struck terror in his unbent, unbroken, and unbowed heart.

     Brienne of Tarth would do anything to protect Queen Sansa. She had proven, over and over, that she was suspicious of him. And now, she was offering to spar with a very real looking blade.

     Even at his peak fighting form, Terras would be lucky if he made it out of this alive.

     “Very well, then. Pick up your blade.”

     Doing as he was told, Terras readied his form and prepared to make the first blow. Too slow. Brienne was there first, striking fast and true. He barely deflected the blow.

     That first move set off a sandstorm of blades and thrusts, snapping back and forth so quickly he could only rely on his raw instincts to stay alive to keep him from falling to one of Brienne’s strikes.

     “What are your intentions?” she asked, as cool as if they were taking a stroll through a garden. Terras flinched, giving her the opportunity to nearly swipe a chop of meat from his shoulder. 

     Terras choked. He should have expected that talk would turn to Sansa, but he hadn’t. He was too busy fighting for his own life. Smart knight. Get your opponent off their guard and then they can only choose between lying and keeping their life. Brienne was counting that he would care more for his life than he would for deceiving her. She was right. “I beg your pardon?”

     “The truth.” The blade slashed near his neck, but her demands were sharper than her blade. “Your intentions with regards to Queen Sansa. The King tells me that there is a threat against her life and I will not have it. Tell me the truth now or I will make sure Dorne requires a new prince.”

     She swung again, this time, not at his body but at his blade. The steel clattered against steel, sending it flying across the practice field. Before Terras could even flinch to retrieve it, Brienne shoved him to the ground.

      “The truth?”

     Brienne stared down at him, her blade against his neck a threat. One he knew she would see through. His heart pounded against his chest. Adrenaline surged within him. But neither flight or fight were an option, not now. “You tell your brother you do everything for the good of Dorne. You tell the Queen that you are after her heart. Both cannot be true. If you truly wanted Sansa’s heart, you would know that it already belongs to The North. She would never be your Queen.”

     “I want what is best for Dorne, yes. But that does not mean I am Queen Sansa’s enemy.”

     “Then, what are you? An ally? A friend? Or do you hope to be something more?”

     Brienne had not cornered him to kill him; he knew that now. She had challenged him so that she might force the truth out of him with the needling threat of a blade. But if she had asked him in a corridor or at a meal or anywhere else in Highgarden, he would have given her the same answer. It was the only one he had to give. “I will be whatever she needs and whatever she wants. That was my promise to her. I am not like the men of Westeros, Ser Brienne. I keep my promises.”

     Something shifted in the knight’s impenetrable gaze, as if one door had closed and another had opened, allowing some light into a once-dark room. As if she were suddenly remembering a half-remembered song from a dream. There wasn’t suddenly warmth or understanding in her gaze, but Terras understood that they’d just fallen into an impasse or a truce…He just wasn’t sure which. Withdrawing her sword, she slipped it into her sheath, saving him from the deadly blade she nearly killed him with.

     “You rely too much on your speed and not enough on form, your highness. Be careful that you shouldn’t get ahead of yourself.” She offered down her armored arm, which he gratefully took and allowed her to help pull him up. But before he knew it, she yanked him to his feet and pulled him close, close enough that no one else on the training ground could hear her low, gravel-voiced threat. “And if you so much as harm a hair on Sansa Stark’s head, do remember that I now command the armies of The North. They love their Queen, and they would love to harm anyone who so much as thought of harming her. And I would love to lead them.”

     It was worse than any blow. It was a threat with a promise.

     With that, Ser Brienne returned to her knights, leaving Terras reeling from the encounter. The leader of The Northern Queensguard, one of the most fabled and even-keeled and honorable knights in all of Westeros, the knight for whom honor mattered above all else, had just threatened war over the heart of Sansa Stark.

     Tyrion’s vow rang in his ears. _If you don’t have her, there will be someone else who will_. He knew he couldn’t allow that to happen. Not because of what he felt for her—though those feelings were as strong in this moment, with the most powerful knight in the kingdom threatening to betray her values out of loyalty and devotion to her, as they’d ever been before—but because he knew he couldn’t let someone less honorable try for her heart.

     If Ser Brienne feared The Three Eyed Raven’s prophecy, Terras knew that there was danger lurking in the distance. One he would do anything to protect Sansa from.

     “Brother,” Alcander asked, coming up behind him to offer a drink of wine, which Terras gladly took. “Are you alright?”

     “Well, there’s one thing to recommend Sansa Stark…She certainly commands loyalty.”

* * *

     Sansa Stark had spent the better part of the morning trying pointedly _not_ to think of Terras. But one thing led another, and she found herself doing her reading for today’s meetings regarding Dornish independence in the shade of her lemon tree…

     …And, eventually, her feet led her out to the practice ground, where Tyrion had spent the majority of breakfast heavily hinting that he would be. Why Tyrion gave even a damn about Terras Gadrios, she couldn’t even begin to understand—perhaps he was hoping she’d convince him to stay in Westeros?—but his motives didn’t matter. 

     Her own motives didn’t, apparently, matter either. Because she found herself pacing back and forth outside of the gates of the practice rings with long, certain strides, without anything to say. But she couldn’t very well turn back _now_. A Queen never turned back, even when she had no clue how to take the first step forward.

     Even if she hadn’t the slightest idea of _what_ kind of step forward she wanted to take.

     In her pacing and her distracted fiddling with her gloves, she hadn’t even noticed the tall figure approaching the fence-line.

     “Your Grace? Is there anything I can do for you? You look…troubled.”

      “Me?” She spun on her booted heel to find the source of the voice directing one of his signature, broad, engrossing smiles squarely in her direction. Terras Gadrios, Prince of Dorne, had the absolutely gall to stand there and smile at her, with his kind eyes and handsome face and stunning smile. The bastard. 

     But that wasn’t all. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. His muscled chest was exposed, giving her a perfect view of his strong, handsome body. It took everything she had within her to avert her stare and continue her pacing as though she wasn’t the least bit affected, as though she often came out to the practice grounds to pace merely for the fun of it. Locking her jaw to keep from licking her lips, she lifted her chin skyward. “No, Prince Terras. Nothing troubles me.”

     “Ever?”

     “What are the small troubles of the world to a Queen?” she asked, more confident than she felt.

      “Isn’t there a woman somewhere behind the crown? Surely things trouble her, if not the Queen.”

 _Damn him. Damn him for being as insightful as he is alluring_. Yes, something was very much troubling Sansa Stark, the woman behind the crown. _He_ was troubling her. Her own heart was troubling her. In this moment, she had nothing but troubles, most of them beginning and ending with the very shirtless man watching her every move.

     “You know,” she began, ignoring his question and his half-dressed state as best as she could. She would _not_ allow herself to be flustered by him. “The winds here in Highgarden can be unforgiving. Do you have a tunic you could put on?”

     “Are you worried about my health? Do my ears deceive me or does the Queen feel something for me after all?”

     Arrogant bastard. She sniffed and stopped at the fence line, squaring off with him. Every word his spoke dripped with amusement. Sometimes she wondered if he remembered that they were royalty, two people with the fate of the world in their hands; he so often made her feel at once like the most important Queen who ever lived and a girl being flirted with by a knight from one of her stories. And that was a feeling she couldn’t allow.

     “It would be most inconvenient to deal with a new prince in Dorne if you died. That is all. Nothing more, nothing less.”

     “Ah, so you don’t feel anything for me at all. Nothing. I’m just a political pawn to you. A thing you can use to keep Westeros in line.”

     He was _teasing_ her. A Queen. She would remind him of his place.

     “I was a thing to be used for so long. Why shouldn’t I do the same to others now that I am Queen?”

     “Because you aren’t like them. And you never could be. You’re too good for it.”

     His eyes sparkled. His smile softened, no longer a weapon but a soft warmth radiating straight from him to her. That was almost worse. When she didn’t answer him, he reached down into a nearby satchel, withdrew a slightly ripped and bloodied tunic, and slipped it on over his head.

     “There. Better?”

 _No. I am not satisfied. This is not better._ But she forced herself to hiss out: “…Yes.”

     “Is there anything else I can offer you?”

     A loaded question. One she didn’t know how to answer. Instead, she fought for a desperate moment to reign in her feelings. She knew exactly why she’d come out here this morning. She just didn’t want to admit it to herself. 

     “I was…” _Breathe. Breathe and conceal your true feelings._ “Every morning, I take a ride around the perimeter of the castle. It helps clear my head. Could your head use clearing, Prince Terras?” 

     There it was again. That spark in his eye. It sparked something in her, too. A dangerous spark that could spread into a consuming fire if she wasn’t careful. “As a matter of fact, I think it could.” 

* * *

     In a world where every move was calculated, every word measured, and every cutting glance weighed, there was something extremely liberating about spending time with someone without any expectation. Riding a horse alongside Sansa Stark was a mostly silent, calm affair, which gave him ample time to watch her commanding form steer the animal around the outer walls of Highgarden, to drink in the way the soft morning light played across her beautiful, unmoved face.

     Still…Terras wanted to know her. And he wanted her to know him. Not just because he enjoyed her company and wanted her to enjoy his, but because he _needed_ her to choose him. It was the only way he could stay close enough to protect her from the threat Brienne believed was hovering out in the distance.

     “Tell me about The North,” he asked, slowing his horse to a trot and waiting for her to do the same. A small smile tugged at Sansa’s lips.

     “It’s cold and grey and if you follow that road over there, you’ll eventually find it.”

     Terras’ smile mirrored hers. “No one gives you enough credit, Your Grace. You are quite funny.”

     Either that was the exact wrong thing to say or the exact right thing to say, because Sansa bowed her head, letting a long curtain of hair shield her face from his view. He had to wonder…was the pink invading her cheeks from the exertion of the ride or had he spoken the blush there?

     By the time she spoke again, though, the blush was little more than a distant memory. She recovered her perfectly regal persona, hiding behind her mask once again.

     Hells, how he longed to capture those moments of warmth, of honesty, of _Sansa._ Every time he suspected she’d let her battlements come crumbling down, she constructed them again, only higher and thicker than ever.

     Sansa scoffed, adjusting the reins held loosely and confidently in her gloved hands. “There is nothing special about The North.”

     “But—”

      “The North is mountains and snow and darkness. Frozen-over rivers and Godswood trees. Nothing remarkable that can’t be found elsewhere in Westeros.” She glanced at him, inspecting him to gauge his reaction. He’d seen this look before. Whenever she veered into the passionate, she assessed him to make sure he wasn’t about to dethrone her like Jon Snow had done to the Dragon Queen. As he slowed his horse alongside hers, he gave her a slight nod of encouragement. “It’s the people of The North that make it the most remarkable place in the world. A people who endure the darkness of winter because they know one day, the sun will rise on them again. A people who endured under the kings of Westerns because they knew one day, they would be free again. When we first met, you told me that you admired the way I’d survived all that Joffrey and the rest did to me. But it’s not because I am special. It’s what any woman of The North would have done. It’s who we are.”

     “They are lucky to have you as a Queen,” he said, meaning every word down to his very soul. Were the people of Dorne as luck to have her as The North was to have her? He couldn’t say for certain. Doubt nestled itself in his chest before he could bat it away. 

     “No, Prince Terras. I am lucky to have them. Not the other way around.”

     This time, he knew the flush wasn’t from the exertion or his words. It was from her own passionate love and respect she held for her people. It was the thing about her he most admired. And the one thing that would forever keep them apart. Brienne was right. She would never be his Queen, not if it meant leaving The North.

 _Change the subject. Anything to distract from that reality_. From the corner of his eye, he drank her in, framed by the morning sun. The sharp corners and thick lines of her ensemble—a black leather riding gown accented with godswood-red scale stitching and silver buckles and irons—caught his attention. It so thoroughly clashed with the rest of the clothing of Highgarden, soft fabrics and sweet, floral hues, that he couldn’t stop staring at it.

     “Is your armor comfortable?”

     “I beg your pardon?” Sansa furrowed her brow slightly, and he gestured to her garb.

     “Your costume. Your wardrobe. Whatever you like to call it. You always look ready to go into battle, though I’ve never seen you raise a sword. Is it comfortable?”

     “A woman’s costume is a message.”

      Pulling back on the reins to slow his horse to the walk she’d adopted, he probed further. Everything about this woman and Queen intrigued him; he needed to understand her. “And what is the message of this dark armor?”

     She raised a wry eyebrow. Her tone was as light and teasing as he’d ever heard it, but the threat in her voice resonated through the air between them all the same. The message was simple. “ _Don’t fuck with The North_.”

     “May I tell you something without you asking Ser Brienne to cut my head off while I sleep?”

     That smile hadn’t left her. His heart rose at the sight as she said, “I make no promises.”

     “Perhaps, now that you are in Highgarden and peace is at hand, you would do me the honor of wearing something more forgiving. You would look beautiful in purple.”

     “I’ll make an agreement with you. On the day that we truly manage to secure peace across the kingdoms, I will allow myself to indulge in something as frilly and ridiculous as you wish.”

      His hand flew to his heart in feigned—and partly real—shock. He’d brought up the peace and the purple not only because it was his heart’s real desire, but because he suspected it would get under her skin. But no. It seemed that she was finally, slowly, warming up to him. “The Queen is bending to my wishes? Color me shocked.”

     “Think of it as an incentive to ensure peace. A Queen never bends, Prince Terras.”

     “So, you wear the costume of war, but want nothing more than peace. You’re ready for war at a moment’s notice, but don’t fight yourself. Quite the contradiction.”

     That’s when the smile slipped. No, not slipped. It disappeared.“I’ve known what war can do, Prince Terras. What it takes from you, even if you never pick up a sword. I’ve taken in the orphans of the war against the dead. Every day, I watch them grow and change and become such wonderful little people. If I can save even one child from a fate like mine, from suffering what I and so many others have suffered, then I will consider my reign to be a success. Peace is the only thing that can save them.”

     Terras furrowed his brow. She had the heart of a warrior-queen. Why didn’t she want to become one fully? He hated the people of Westeros, hated everything they stood for, and if he could take them all on by himself without risking any of his men, then he would have exacted revenge on everyone who’d ever risked Dorne. “But shouldn’t you at least learn how to use a sword or a bow? Even if only to defend The North’s children? I would teach you, you know.”

     “Carrying a weapon is an invitation to use it. If I started swinging a sword in the direction of my enemies, I’d never stop.”

     He’d heard the stories of those who’d wronged her, all of the ways she’d been used. He didn’t blame her for wanting their blood. He wanted their blood and he hadn’t even _met_ half of them. As they turned the north-eastern corner of the outer castle wall, Terras’ curiosity got the best of him. “And am _I_ your enemy?”

     “What’s that?” she asked, distracted.

     “Am I your enemy?”

     “No, what’s that there, in the brush?”

     Terras had barely realized she’d sped up her horse’s pace, but now, he looked up to see that she was a full ten paces ahead of him. He urged his animal forward and followed her line of sight. There, in the brush where she pointed, lay a man in the tattered traveling clothes of a noble, his body bloodied and bruised.

     "Hells,” Terras breathed. 

     He dismounted, fully intending to run and tend to the man, to lift him back onto his horse and take him into Highgarden. But Sansa was too quick. She shoved the reins of her horse into his hands, forcing him to stand back apace as she practically dove into the brush to gently shift the male figure onto his back.

     Terras flinched at the sight of him. A young man, a few years older than himself, groaned as Sansa cradled him into her arms, dried blood caked around his nose and lips.

     “Are you alright? What’s happened?”

     “You’re…” The man blinked awake. “You’re Queen Sansa Stark, aren’t you?”

     “How do you know my name?”

     Sansa blanched. And just like that, it was as if Terras’ vision focused and his senses sharpened. The wounds were not very deep. The man’s groans didn’t match with the movement of his body. The gentle, pained smile he directed at Sansa was…not right.

     Maybe it was jealousy. He _prayed_ that it was jealousy. Because the alternative was too terrible to consider.

     “I never thought I’d see your face in person. But your portrait…” The man coughed. He shoved through the pain to speak again. Bloody fingers rose to brush the skin of her cheek, leaving a red stain in its wake. “I memorized that. And my sister loved you. She wrote of you so clearly I felt…I felt as though I knew you myself.”

     Sansa’s face hardened. Suspicion wrote itself into her every muscle. “ _How do you know me_?”

     "I’m Willas Tyrell. Once upon a time, you were to be my wife.”

     Without another word, Willas Tyrell fainted in Sansa Stark’s arms. Her skin paled. Her eyes softened. The gentle rise and fall of her breast quickened until he worried she’d lose all control over her own breath.

     For the first time, Sansa Stark hadn’t just shown him a flicker of the girl she was behind the queen. She’d let go of the Queen entirely. And she’d done it over Willas Tyrell. 

     In that moment, Terras knew that the prophecies of The Three-Eyed Raven were real. He knew that what was in his heart wasn’t vain jealousy. There _was_ a danger coming for Sansa Stark. And he was laying in her arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience with this fic! My Mac broke down on me and it took three weeks to fix! Let me know what you think of this chapter! In the next one, look forward to Willas' proper introduction, some Alcander/Jeyne Pool action, and the return of Gendry! 
> 
> Can't wait to hear what you think!


	7. Chapter Seven

     As of this moment...Well, as of any moment when the Queen of the North was somewhere, Sansa Stark was the most senior lady in Highgarden. And, as such, certain things were required of her. Terras understood that. While Sansa was a most unconventional Queen, she still very much was the Queen, which meant that the well-fare of an ailing member of a long-lost family—especially one who could threaten her hold over her kingdom—was very much her concern. 

      But still, with Tyrion’s promises and Ser Brienne’s fears and The Three-Eyed Raven’s warnings swirling about in his mind, the sight of her sitting vigil outside of the long-lost Tyrell’s chambers was enough to stab through his veins with sharp blades of ice.

     He just couldn’t decide if those blades were sharpened by jealousy or some kind of protective instinct.

     Much of the assembled Westerosi court had made their way here, to this part of the castle, to collect gossip and discuss what the arrival of the long believed dead Willas Tyrell would mean for peace and the future of Westeros. Terras stood at the far end of the hallway, watching the comings and goings and whisperings quiet reverence.

     All the while, he could feel his brother’s presence like the hot wind off of a fire, wrapping around his neck and threatening to choke him. It surely didn’t escape Alcander’s notice that most of Terras’ attention settled squarely on Sansa’s shoulders. Terras watched every twitch of her cheeks, every flutter of her eyelashes, trying to read emotions that were not there, trying to glean secrets that she would not share with him.

     For the first time since arriving in Highgarden, Terras could no longer wear his lighthearted mask of ease. It was hard to play the devil-may-care prince when the devils might have finally arrived. 

     After too long, Alcander cleared his throat. “Brother. I am—”

     “Please don’t say another word about my duty,” Terras intoned. 

     “I wasn’t going to. I was going to say I’m worried about you. I’ve never seen you like this before. Is it true what they say about him? Is he really Sansa’s long-lost betrothed?”

     Tyrion had been the first to arrive when the soldiers carried Willas’ body into the Keep. He’d filled Terras in on a vague outline of the particulars, the words rushing out as he tried to keep one step ahead of this sudden development. The words tasted like ash as he repeated them. Such simple words to carry such years of trauma for Sansa. “From what I can glean, yes. She was meant to marry him before the old Lord of the Vale, Baelish, rearranged everything to his whims. After Willas, she was to marry Loras Tyrell, then Tyrion, then the mad Bolton who took over Winterfell.”

     “You worry that he will steal her away from you?”

     “She is not a thing, Alcander. She cannot be stolen.”

     He’d snapped the words, harsher than he’d intended. Mostly because he wasn’t just talking about Alcander anymore. He was trying to remind himself. His growing feelings for The Queen in the North did not make her his property or something for him to own. If he cared for her, then her happiness was the only thing that mattered. Even if she found that happiness with Willas Tyrell.

     He sorted through the words of Brienne’s warnings, and for the first time, he considered a dangerous proposition: what if the danger coming for Sansa Stark wasn’t the machinations of Tyrion or the sudden arrival of a long-dead Tyrell? What if _he_ was the danger, and he didn’t even know it?

     “Apologies,” Alcander said, touching his hand to Terras’ shoulder in a sign of apology. “That was the wrong choice of words. Let me rephrase: do you worry that she will fall in love with him instead of you? Is that why you are torn this way?”

     “No. I am torn this way because I know…” His voice hitched against his will as his eyes settled upon the steeled porcelain of Sansa’s cheeks. “I know that she _should_ choose him. She _must_ choose him.”

     “What do you mean?”

     Gods, it all made sense now. The Three-Eyed Raven’s prophecy had been opaque, but now, it seemed as clear to him as Dornish glass. Willas was the one meant to be at Sansa’s side; Terras was the threat. After all, they could never be together. A future for the Prince of Dorne and the Queen of The North was an impossible fairy tale. If he tried to write an ending for them where they ended happily, with their twin thrones and a family of direwolves and children, they would all end in ruin. And he and his love would be the cause of it. Terras cleared his throat, and attempted to steady his voice.

      “If Willas Tyrell is good, if he is kind, if he makes her happy, if he will bring her no harm, then she must choose him. He could actually go to The North with her, be the king she deserves. I could never give up Dorne. And she could never give up The North. Our love would be doomed from the start. Everyone knows it.”

     “Brother—”

     “Your prince has spoken,” he said. It wasn’t often he invoked his position to force an issue, but at this moment, he couldn’t bear another protestation. If he didn’t give up Sansa now, he never would. And if the prophecy was correct, that would mean the end of everything. Including the woman he was growing to love. “Now, we must go. There is work to be done that doesn’t concern the Queen in the North. We’d better get to it.”

      Without another word, Terras tore his eyes away from Sansa, his heart rioting against the silent farewell he wished her.

 

* * *

     Sansa knew what they were all thinking. She could feel it in Ser Brienne’s stare on the back of her neck. You are a Queen now. You do not have to wait at an ailing man’s bedside. You do not have to concern yourself with the affairs of a stranger who may not even be who he says he is. They were all too smart to say it out loud, of course, but she knew that’s what they were thinking even without anyone opening their mouths to speak it.

     She knew they were all thinking it because she herself couldn’t stop thinking it. _You are a Queen, Sansa. The manipulations of your past shouldn’t matter anymore. You are more than the little girl who might have been Willas Tyrell’s wife._

     But still, no matter how many times she reminded herself of that truth, she sat, stiff-backed and impassive, in the hard wooden bench across from his locked chamber door, waiting for the healers and maesters to come out and give her their full report on his well-being.

     For so long, she would whisper Willas’ name into her pillow, praying over the word as if she could manifest him into existence, a savior to rescue her from her tower of torment. Now, here in the flesh, he was the last remnant of the fairy tale she’d once imagined for herself. She had to know. She had to see for herself whether that little girl’s dream was really as foolish as she’d always suspected.

     Or...Had Margaery been telling the truth all those years ago? Had she really wanted to be Sansa’s sister, to see her happy and in the care of someone who would truly love her? Was Willas the kind of man her father had wanted her to find: someone worthy, someone brave and gentle and strong? She didn’t know. And she couldn’t know until she met him.

     It was a weakness. She knew that. Holding onto girlhood fantasies that her betrothed would be good and kind and loyal and loving was nothing short of madness, especially after all she’d endured. But it was one weakness she couldn’t hold at bay.

     She had to know.

      So, she stayed. Long after everyone else had lost interest in the rousing of the lost Tyrell and had gone back to their wine or their revelry or their plotting, she—along with Jeyne and Brienne—kept watch over his long-still door. The healers had been in there for so long, too long, that she had to wonder if she’d ever find the truth she was seeking.

     Clocks in a far-off steeple rang out the hour. Jeyne’s eyes grew heavy and Sansa let her lady-in-waiting doze. And somewhere between the second and third chime, a somewhat familiar, rough voice reached her ears.

     “Your Grace.”

     The clanking of well-made armor alerted her to the presence of a bowing gentleman, and when she looked up, it was Gendry, her uncle’s bastard and Lord of Storm’s End, who stood before her. Her eyebrow twitched in surprise, but she kept her voice low and measured to cover up the knee-jerk response.

     “Lord Gendry,” she said, inclining her head by way of measured greeting. “A pleasant surprise. I was told you wouldn’t be attending this summit.”

     “I came once I heard that you would be here, Queen Sansa.”

 

_They’ll all want to marry you know that you’re Queen,_ she remembered Yara saying. Gods, she did not want to entertain another thought of marriage right now. Not with Terras and Willas fighting for dominance within the confines of her mind. 

     “Oh?”

     “I was wondering if…if you’d heard from your sister.”

     Sansa surveyed the new arrival at Highgarden with detached interest. It was all there, written in his every tightened muscle and nervous flicker of his eyes. How had she not noticed it before, when they were all at Winterfell before the battle against the dead?The warm dawn of realization heated her chest. _Gendry has feelings for Arya. Little Arya isn’t so little anymore._

     “Have _you_ not heard from her?”

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gendry mumbled, quick and obviously guilty enough that Sansa almost laughed.

     “I think you _do_ know what I’m talking about.”

     A flicker of indecision gave way to worry as Gendry dropped all pretense of not caring. “I haven’t heard a word from her since she left. Aren’t you worried about her?”

     Instinctively, as they did any time someone dared to ask Sansa about her feelings, the muscles in her spine tightened until she was sitting at her full, intimidating height.

     “You forget yourself, Lord Gendry,” Sansa sniffed. Then, without letting her composed mask slip, she continued: “But if you must know, I miss her too. Fiercely.”

     “Haven’t you thought of going after her?”

     “My sister is a rare creature. I would suggest that you not put her in a cage. Or even attempt to.”

     The lines in Gendry’s face deepened in the dark shadows of the corridor. Something like sadness radiated against the walls of Sansa’s chest. She and Arya were really shooting stars crossing in the night, weren’t they? Here, Arya had everything Sansa had ever wanted: a kind, gentle, Lord who wanted to make her his lady. Yet she had thrown it away in search of a different kind of destiny.

     Sansa couldn’t have been more proud of her. It took courage to fight for your own life. But, she also could see—anyone could have seen—that Gendry would have gone to the ends of the world to join Arya in that life. Temptation danced on her tongue to tell him that, to tell him to run after her.

     But the cynic in her won out. The truth of romance was never as simple as two people in love being together, never as simple as a leap of faith. She bit her tongue and watched as the light slipped away from Gendry’s eyes.

     “Thank you for your counsel. I will take it under advisement.”

     He disappeared, and for a good while, Sansa was again alone with her thoughts. Ser Brienne, though she’d watched the entire exchange, was good enough not to say anything about it, and Jeyne dozed at the opposite end of the bench, leaving her to convince herself that she’d done the right thing.

     She had, hadn’t she?

     After all, love was a fairy tale, a story told to children to make them less afraid of the night. Arya and Gendry needed no such delusions. And neither did she.

     Just as she was turning the corner of that thought, the door to Willas Tyrell’s bedroom suddenly slammed open, revealing a team of healers and maesters, all flanking Tyrion, who came straight for Sansa. She rose to her feet, though her station didn’t dictate it.

     All of her nervous energy needed somewhere to go.

     “He is who he says he is,” Tyrion said, waving a handful of parchments in the air. Heavy bags weighed down his eyes; every word of his was labored, even slightly annoyed. Sansa tucked that little fact away for further investigation. It was entirely possible that Tyrion was put-out by the fact that he’d just given away House Tyrell’s seat to a politically expedient sellsword, but it seemed deeper than that. After all Bronn should have been easy enough to get rid of. Sansa could think about a dozen ways to do it off of the top of her head. “I have confirmed it with the records kept in the crypts of Highgarden. A birthmark marks the heir of House Tyrell.”

     “And is he…” Sansa straightened her skirts. It was the best way she knew to communicate detached disinterest.“Is he alright?”

     “He will live, if that’s what you’re asking.”

     “I will speak to him. I want to see him for myself.”

     Tyrion smiled up at her, but the expression was tight. Tense. The kind of smile her father used to give her when she spoke of the beauty of King’s Landing. Tyrion’s eyes glanced up and down the hallway, searching. “Of course. Will Prince Terras not be joining you, then?”

     There it was again, that muscle twitch in her spine that awakened her _I am a Queen and you are nothing_ posture. “Why would Prince Terras be joining me?”

     “The affairs of princes and Queens is no concern of mine. I was only curious.”

     “No. I will go in alone.”

     “As you wish.” Tyrion’s tight smile didn’t falter. His eyes brushed over the sleeping Jeyne before he offered himself to the knight standing at the bench’s side. “Ser Brienne. A word?”

 

* * *

     With the Lord of Highgarden’s chambers currently occupied by Bronn of the Blackwater, the guards who had hustled the rightful heir to this place brought him to the first room that they could find, a simple bedchamber with little more than the basic amenities and refinement. This gave Sansa nothing to distract her from the sight of the broken man in the bed. The crackling fireplace against the far wall illuminated his bare chest and his cut-up, bruised face. Long shadows danced against the jagged, angry slices now populating his cheeks and forehead, his stomach and breast.

     Even with the wounds, he was handsome, she decided. Not that it was enough to sway her, not when her walls were firmly in place against him.

     Yes, she wanted to know if her girlish hopes were realized in this man. But…she wasn’t about to let him know that. The less he knew about her, the more power she had against this sudden wildcard in Westeros’ game of thrones.

     She hesitated by the door, hoping the shadows would devour her long enough to get a good, solid measure of him. But when he coughed and turned in her direction, his weak, heavy eyes sparking at the sight of her, she knew she wasn’t going to get the quiet size-up she’d been after.

     “Sansa Stark. I thought you would be here when I woke up.”

     The memory of Terras bowing before her during their first meeting in King’s Landing flashed in her mind. “Queen.”

     “I beg your pardon?”

     “Queen Sansa Stark. Queen of Winterfell. Queen of the North. I answer to my titles and Your Grace, if I must be addressed.”

     A low, wavering whistle answered her. “My betrothed, a Queen. What does that make me, then?”

 _Nothing_ , she wanted to say. _It makes you nothing. You left me to be devoured by The Lannisters and Ramsey and all the rest. You could have saved me and you let them have me instead. Here you are, putting on airs and making presumptions when you should be begging for my mercy. And besides, I’m not your betrothed. I belong to no one._

      Instead, she strode over to the chair beside his bed and settled herself down in it.

     “I suppose it would have made you Lord of Highgarden if you’d have been here.”

     “I didn’t abandon you.”

      Sansa didn’t like the sensation of being caught off-guard. But she couldn’t help it in that moment.

     “I beg your pardon?”

     “I can see it in your eyes. You think I abandoned you. But I didn’t, Queen Sansa. My grandmother…I loved her very dearly but if you knew her, you had to know how callous, how calculating, she could be.”

     Margaery’s grandmother was infamous across Westeros, and Sansa knew firsthand how her zero-sum machinations could alter someone’s entire existence.

     “Yes, I know.”

     “She knew a war was coming. And she didn’t think a cripple like me would survive it. _An easy target_ , she called me. She trusted me to Petyr Baelish, thinking he would save me, would protect me. But he threw me in a dungeon deep within The Vale, ready to use me against her at a moment’s notice. I’ve only…” She watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed and he grimaced from the pain of the motion as it disturbed one of the blood-stained bandages around his neck. “I only survived with thoughts of you.”

     “Me?”

     “Margaery and my grandmother told me of you, of our betrothal. Of your beauty and your kindness and your sweet disposition.”

_Beauty, kindness, sweet disposition…_ Once again, thoughts of Terras clawed at the doors of her mind, begging to intrude on this moment. Terras spoke of her beauty and her kindness too, of course. But there was more. He spoke of her courage and her strength and everything the war had spent years carving into her.

     More importantly, when she looked in his eyes, she knew he believed it. But Willas…he was as mysterious as an ancient riddle. Deep blue eyes, so like Margaery’s, stared back at her, begging her to bend to his sweet words, to the story he wove all around her like a blanket draping over her shoulders near a campfire in the middle of a snowstorm.

     “All I wanted was to steal you away from King’s Landing and bring you to Highgarden to be my Lady. But when I got sent to Baelish’s Pit, he would send ravens every so often, taunting me with tales of you, telling me what horrible acts were being committed against you. Every time I closed my eyes, I dreamed of calling The Banners to my aid, mounting a great, white steed, donning my armor, and freeing you from Winterfell and Bolton. All I wanted to do was save you, Sansa. And I failed. For that, I will always be sorry.” 

_Sorry_. Such a tiny, insignificant word. But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard it fro someone. With all of the wrongs and evils committed against her in the name of power, of greed, of lust, of revenge, she’d secretly longed for someone to say it, to utter those two little syllables. She’d dreamed of pressing a knife to Cersei’s throat, hearing her whisper the word with pleading tears streaming down her cheeks, only to kill her the moment it passed her lips. She’d wanted Petyr to say it as he begged for his life.

      But no one had yet given her that small gift. No one but Willas.

     She found her hand on the bedclothes beside his own. Slowly, her fingers moved towards him, crossing the mountains of fabric until she gently touched the tips of her fingers to the top of his hand.

     It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t love. And there were no sparks at his touch, not the bottled lightning sensation that touching Terras always gave her.

     But it was nice. Good enough. Her lips tugged at the ends, the cautious beginning of a detente.

     “You wanted to save me, but it seems as though I saved you,” she teased, lightly.

     His eyes darkened. His hand tightened around her own. The air chilled as a warning passed his handsome lips. “Oh, Queen Sansa. You think you’ve been saved?”

* * *

     Sansa left Willas’ chambers when the darkness still wrapped around the castle and the newly found Tyrell was fast asleep. As she and her small entourage made their way back to their own wing of the Keep, Sansa lowered her voice so that only her friend could hear. No one else needed to know of the conflict raging within the Queen’s own heart.

     Willas was an unknown to her still. Yes, she knew his story now, and yes, the heart of the little girl who wanted rescuing still bit within her chest, wanting him to be the rescuing Knight she’d always dreamed him to be. But she didn’t know him. Didn’t know what he wanted. Didn’t know what he was capable of.

     Didn’t know how she wanted to feel about him. Every time she entertained the idea of their betrothal, Terras returned to the forefront of her mind, like a song one heard through the window of a drinking house years ago but couldn’t forget.

     Terras was an impossibility. She knew that. But…in this moment, she trusted him more than she trusted her betrothed who had, by his own account, fought his way through the Vale to find her again.

     “What do you make of it, Lady Jeyne?”

     Wide, dark eyes scanned the hallway for any sign of eavesdroppers. When she heard none, Jeyne finally replied. “Do you want the truth?”

     “From you? I only want the truth.”

     After all, Jeyne was one of the only people in the seven Kingdoms and The North she actually trusted to tell her the truth. Disturbingly, she had also begun counting Terras among that small group, a frightening development. 

     “I don’t trust him. I want to trust him, and I will trust him, if you think it’s best. But even fairy tale princes turn to monsters when they’re kept in cages long enough.” Jeyne drew in a long breath, and Sansa held her own as she waited for her dearest friend and counselor to give the rest of her answer. “Your Grace...I know you want to be loved.”

      “I _am_ loved.”

     “By your people, yes. By me and by Ser Brienne, of course. But you want that kind of love that keeps the hearth warm in the center of your heart, the kind of love that will be there even if someone tries to tear you from your throne, the kind of love that would call a million armies to protect a single hair on your head. I know you want that kind of love, no matter how you may deny it.”

     Sansa tightened her jaw and kept her eyes focused forward. She wasn’t going to lie now, not when she’d just asked Jeyne for the truth. “And?”

     “And I don’t know if you’ll ever find it in Willas Tyrell.”

     “…He could be useful,” Sansa said, more a reminder for herself than to anyone else. Prince Terras of Dorne couldn’t give her anything but betrayal and a broken heart. Willas Tyrell could give her access to the riches of House Tyrell, which had been under lock and key since the death of the house at the hands of the Lannisters. He could give her a King. He could give her children.

     Willas’ motives were unclear. But at least she knew where he stood on the board in this great game. When it came to Terras, she felt like she was fighting against a ghost.

     Or, perhaps more accurately, she felt like she wasn’t fighting at all. And Sansa didn’t know how to live if she wasn’t fighting. Not anymore. The wars and battles were constantly being fought in the battleground of her mind, just as Baelish taught her. When she was with Terras, there was peace. She didn’t know how to handle peace, no matter how much she craved it. 

     “Will Willas Tyrell be useful to your kingdom or to your heart?”

     “Those are the same thing, Jeyne,” Sansa snapped, harsher than she intended. But she didn’t regret it. After all, a Queen couldn’t afford a heart of her own.

     “As you like, Your Grace.”

       _As you like_ , here, clearly meant: _I disagree with you, but respect you too much to insult you by saying anything else on the matter_. Together, the two ladiesturned into the courtyard that would lead them back towards their rooms, only to see Gendry and a small faction of soldiers readying their horses.

     Sansa hadn’t survived the war by believing in chance or fate. But she would be a fool to think that she survived any of it by her own devices alone. Maybe it was fate that brought Gendry into her path, maybe it was luck, but in any case, she wasn’t about to let him go.

     Fairy tales didn’t happen in this world. But maybe Gendry and Arya weren’t a fairytale. Maybe they were an epic poem, the kind of long song that warmed a cold night and reminded everyone that hope still flickered, even in the darkness.

     And if Sansa couldn’t have her own heart, if she would be a Queen instead of a woman, then at least she could ensure that Arya’s kept beating.     

     “Lord Gendry?”

     The man in question started, but turned to face her, his hands still on the reins of his horse. “Yes, Your Grace?”

     “Do you have anyone you would trust with your Keep? A regent or attendant who can be sworn to hold your lands fast? Someone who would be as good a Lord to your people as you are?”

     Gendry’s brow furrowed, but he nodded after a moment of consideration. “I believe I do.”

     “Then take your ships. Take the fastest ones you can find. And find my sister. Sail to the edge of the world and find her.”

     “…She wouldn’t want to come back. She wouldn’t want to be a Lady.”

     Sansa hadn’t been asking. She’d given a command, and she would see it through. With a small, secretive smile, she retrieved the dagger that Arya had given to her before the battle against the dead. The blade glinted like a star in the deep, dark night. She cut the insignia from the banner draped over the flanks of Gendry’s horse before dropping the useless fabric into the mud. “Good. Because you aren’t a Lord. Stop pretending to be one.”

* * *

     As far as Lady Jeyne Pool was concerned, Highgarden didn’t have much to recommend it. Through her life, she’d seen plenty of keeps and plenty of castles, heard all of the stories about the splendor of Westeros’ finest.

     But so far, the only thing Jeyne had come to truly love about this place was the sunshine. Here, the world was basked in it. The castle and the keep and the gardens within were soaked in sunlight, golden rays that lasted almost until the evening.

     She couldn’t get enough. Years of dungeons and abuse would do that to you. When all you know is darkness, all you crave is sunlight.

     So, she spent the morning after Willas Tyrell’s return as she spent most of her mornings when Sansa was otherwise occupied: sprawled a patch of sun in Highgarden’s finest garden. But, unlike most mornings, when she could not simply enjoy the light upon her skin. Today, she was distracted by thoughts of Highgarden’s returned prince.

     Jeyne didn’t like it. Not his sudden arrival. Not the way he glommed onto Sansa. Not the way he seemed to presume that their betrothal would still be binding. Not the way he seemed so keen on possessing her, on saving her, on rescuing her.

     Sansa didn’t need to be rescued. Sansa needed a partner, an equal. A King for a Queen instead of a knight for the damselled princess.

     Someone, Jeyne thought, rather like Terras of Dorne.

     The crunch of a branch beneath booted feet shocked her to standing. But when she opened her eyes, it wasn’t to a stranger or a guard coming to give her abuse, as had been the case when she was in captivity. It was to the sight of Alcander, Prince Terras’ brother, who held his bare hands up in surrender.

     There, in the sunlight, she couldn’t deny how handsome he was. Nor how her pulse sped up at the sight of him, especially when he smiled down at her as though she were the most precious creature to ever walk the ground of Westeros.

     “My apologies, Lady Jeyne.”

     “No, _my_ apologies. I spook easily,” she said, clasping a hand to her chest. Controlling her breathing proved more difficult than she’d expected, but Alcander smiled broadly, a toothy, understanding grin brightening his face.

     “If a strange man had snuck up upon me while I was napping, I would have spooked, too. No shame in it. I’m just glad to find someone who enjoys the sunshine as much as I do. Do you mind if I join you?”

     She shook her head and returned to her patch of grass, watching from the corner of her eye as he took a place beside her. For awhile, they sat in silence. Well, relative silence. The garden was peaceful and serene, but the inside of her mind was a battlefield of internal conversations and doubts.

     Doubts she could no longer keep to herself. After a moment of mental torment, she finally blurted out the one question she returned to over and over again: “What does your Prince want with Sansa?”

     “What does your Sansa want with my Prince?”

     “I asked you first. And I happen to have diplomatic seniority in this regard, my Sansa being a Queen and all.”

     Something flickered in Alcander’s dark eyes. Jeyne tensed, waiting for a blow like she would have received for talking back while she was in bondage. But no sooner had the flicker passed than Alcander let out a laugh, warm and enveloping. Jeyne’s muscles relaxed. “I’ve never met someone so loyal to their Queen. It’s refreshing.”

     “And your Prince?”

     “Well, my Prince is my brother, so the loyalty runs as deep as the urge to smack him around with a sword every once in awhile.”

     Jeyne wasn’t very comfortable with men anymore. She’d had years to learn that wariness. Staying away from them was often the only way to protect herself from them. But being here, with Alcander…It was the first time that the noise of her past began to quiet.

     Warmth flooded her cheeks, a warmth she couldn’t blame on the sunshine. _Focus on Sansa_ , she reminded herself. _Focus on finding the truth._

     “What does your prince want with her?” she asked again.

     Alcander coughed, and surveyed her from beneath his long, dark eyelashes, as though he were suddenly very sheepish about something. “Lady Jeyne, I must confess that as much as I love the sunshine, I came to this garden with an ulterior motive.”

     “I don’t scheme, Ser Alcander.”

     If he thought she was going to betray Sansa for a few kind smiles, he had another thing coming. She would _not_ turn against her only friend. 

     Alcander’s light, lilting tone—so casual, so warm—didn’t leave him, even under the weight of her serious stare. “That’s rather unfortunate because you see, there’s a certain prince who feels very deeply for a certain Queen. If it were possible that that certain Queen returned that certain prince’s feelings… Well, helping them realize those feelings would require a certain level of scheming from their closest friends and advisors, wouldn’t it?”

     One didn’t need to be a political genius to understand what he was proposing. It wasn’t a political endeavor. He wanted to play match-maker. And he wanted her help.

     It would be a betrayal of her Queen to engage with such activities. It would certainly require lying and scheming, two things Jeyne swore she would never engage in where Sansa was concerned. It would certainly ruin things between Sansa and Willas Tyrell.

     So, of course, she knew she _had_ to do it. 

     “…What did you have in mind?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Again, I'm so sorry for the delay in this chapter. I am actually getting married (***** how cool is that?!!!!!!!*******) on Saturday, so I've been super busy with preparations, but I had to get this chapter out for my own sanity! I love this story and these characters and spending time with them was the best way to distract myself from my current wild, hectic life!
> 
> Anyway, please let me know what you thought! Willas is such an interesting, mysterious character to write, and I'm interested to see what you all think of Sansa and Terras' conflicts! Can't wait to hear your thoughts!


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